Sempiternal
by carelessdodger
Summary: Her life had not started on the best of first pottering steps, in fact, the beginning of her life played out more like a stumble and head first crash into a stone wall. Like a bad omen of biblical proportions, she had come on the tail end of a raging storm Linne Foirthe had never witnessed before... Ivar/OC, strong M
1. The forgotten

_~Prologue~_

The world had gone to Hel in a burst of screams, heavy losses and dusting of agony. Perhaps, it had been coming to this since its beginning, a long, drawn out death of wailing and bloodshed. It was all ironic in a way, one entered this dismal world crying, bloody and red-faced and many a man and woman left it in the exact same state. Everyone was someone's soldier in some war, of their own making or someone else's. Be the battlefield metaphorical, with morals, loves, dreams and hopes the zooming arrows piercing hearts and lungs, or a real mud clogged field in a foreign land with alien gods as your sole witness.

Mercia against Wessex, Northumbria against Sussex, Sussex against Wessex, Mercia against Northumbria, Scotland against the Anglian kingdoms... Everyone against the invading Danes. It was never ending, eternal, once you picked up a weapon, it seemed like you would die with one in your hand. Maybe that was why Ingrid would not be as shocked by her own imminent death. Blood splattered, sloothing through the fallen bodies, friends, enemies, just a jellied mass now, hatchet clinking and clanging against the broadsword currently trying to slit her from naval to Adam's apple. It could have all been so very different, her life, if only she never picked up that hatchet in the first place, years ago.

She could have still been Lachina, nothing but an orphan slave girl, washed up on the coast of Scotland in a boat filled with the dead, bustling and cringing away from the hits and insults of her masters. She could have lived a safe, all be it, unpleasant life. She, perhaps, could have ended up on the imposing forces she was currently trying to cut through. Yet, she would have never met _him._

Everyone knew how hard war was, anyone with eyes could see the product of it. Kingdom against kingdom, brother against brother, loss, grief, pain, physical and mental, but no one ever told you what the hardest war was, the war you would have to face alone. The war between your mind and heart. Ingrid had followed her heart and while faced with death, bloody painful oblivion that would either end with her at the shining gates of Valhalla or the cold ruins of Hel, she did not for one moment regret that decision, even as the men around her closed in, swords glinting, her white knuckles tightening around the leather strap of her shield, breathing growing steady and really, there was only one word that she wanted to be her last to flutter past her lips. One name.

"Ivar!"

* * *

 **PART ONE**

 _~What's in a name?~_

* * *

 **Chapter I**

 **The Forgotten**

 _~Eighteen years ago~_

Her life had not started on the best of first pottering steps, in fact, the beginning of her life played out more like a stumble and head first crash into a stone wall. Like a bad omen, she had come on the tail end of a raging storm that had nearly decimated the small village laying on the outskirts of Linne Foirthe, Scotland. The storm had been brutal, the great river, the very same she had drifted down upon, swelling and swallowing all those who had housed too close, rough winds tearing down merchant tents and hearths, leaving naught but chaos, water clogged harvesting fields and destruction in its wake. It had also claimed many deaths, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, cousins. Nature, it seemed, when in the mood to kill and slay in a god-like anger, did not discriminate. Take that as either condolences or a bitter truth to choke down, it is what it is, the truth.

Two days later, while the bruised and grim-faced survivors tried to collect the fallen, piling the mass dead in a sloppy pit one by one ready for burial, rebuild from the scraps mother nature had left them and return to life before, a ship unlike many had seen rolled in down the shrinking river, outwardly devoid of all life, peculiar circular discs strapped to its side. Miraculously, it had not sunk during the storm it had surely sailed through, not even a scratch on the stem mast that ended in a horrid beast face the natives had never seen before. When it finally crunched and careened onto the pebbled dock, it took another day for the inhabitants of Linne Foirthe to gain enough courage to board and search the strange vessel that had come to their home like a phantom. The rolling fog had not helped calm their suspicions either, leaving the elders, the ones left after the greatest storm of living memory, to whisper over the camp fires with dire mouths and hooded eyes.

What they found had not been what they had hoped. No gold, gemstones or shiny things to scavenge, just littered dead, some propped and rolled over others in awkward angles and twists, some faces still open in silent screams, one even tangled up in the ropes, as if swept to one side of the ship by an almighty wind. Many men had left after that, forgetting altogether about the ship as they trudged back home to carry on the much-needed work of making their village what it once was. The ship would merely become a boisterous tale they would tell their grandchildren, said grandchildren smiling indulgently at their forefathers as they gawked through their words with extravagant hand gestures and more than enough exaggeration.

Although, fortunately, one man had stayed, or their would be no story to tell. He was nothing special, a fisherman by trade with an appetite for greed, always looking for an easy coin or two, slightly hunched backed from years of huddling over the river retrieving his nets, leaning over buckets gutting fish, bent over and picking through the beach. He was plain-faced, adorned in drab clothes that had seen better days passed and had nothing notable at all. He had been stripping the dead bodies of their strange leathers and metals, mind calculating the cost he could earn down at the market, mentally spinning exotic tales he could tell the buyers to pull on the strings of their purses when the hushed squawk reached his ears.

He had originally ignored it, even when the noise repeated, only gruffly coming to a stand and searching when the indignant huff became an obnoxious wail. He found the cause at the very back of the long boat, tapered and covered by thick wool pinned to the sides of the boat, forming a makeshift tent. Peeking under, his first sight was that of a dead body, a woman. She was laying on her back, skin sunken and blue, hallow, fingers frigidly clasping at a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms, head lolled to the side even as her legs were splayed, shift of linen pooling up her thighs, stained crimson along with the trails leading down her thighs and legs, a congealed puddle around her.

The man liked to believe he had a strong stomach, gutting fish day in day out would do that to you, but even he, greeted with this grotesque tableau had to turn away and gag, the smell stinging his nostrils, a smell he was sure he would never be able to fully shake or scrub from his memory. Who were these people? To bring a pregnant lady on board a ship? Poor woman likely died in the throes of childbirth, the vicious storm her wet-nurse.

His fingers, thick and as wrinkled as tree bark, jagged nails grimy and blackened, nearly let go of the flap when he noticed the noise had not stopped, neither was it imaginary or the haunting wail of a wraith sent to earth to word of intruders. Covering his nose with the cuff of his scruffy tunic, he ducked and scuttled in, edging around the body to the bundle in the corpse's arms. His hands shook as he pulled the thick blue cloth back, eyes growing wide when a pair of eyes flickered and locked onto his.

He had never seen eyes as green as those nestled in the skull of a chubby babe, a shade lighter than the highlands when the rare sunshine glinted off glades of grass and just as vibrant as the evergreens in the mists of autumn, surrounded by orange foliage of dying trees, the sharpness likely coming from the startling ring of star burst yellow around the babes pupils. From the lone tuft of a curl jutting out from the wrap, the babe would have a head of blazing copper many Scots would be proud to boast and bejewel with clasps and beads. The babe could have been pale, he thought, under all the blood still crusting to its skin, flaking in places.

Then the little tyrant screwed up its face and began to wail and scream in earnest, nearly making his ears bleed with the tempo and pitch. Cringing away from it, hand snapping back to his chest, the man looked towards the end of the boat, back to the real world, his world with no dead, no babe, no strange boats. Could he... Just leave it here? No one would likely know, the babe had been alone for three days now, death was surely hovering close to it, waiting, salivating. No one from his village would know...

But he would. He was a lot of things, thief, liar, spinner of tails, a poor fisherman with an ageing and breaking body, but a child killer? Even inadvertently, he could never allow himself to become such, leaving the child behind would be equal to using a dagger upon it. Yet, he hardly had enough coin and food to feed himself, clothe himself, keep his hearth alight, let alone a growing child who would need a woman's teet to quell its bottomless stomach.

Growling underneath his breath, the man pried the dead woman's hands away from the babe, wincing when her stiff fingers crunched and snapped under his own unforgiving hands. Scooping the babe out and away from the corpse, slithering back into the quickly dimming daylight, the man held the babe out, inspecting it, waiting as if it would suddenly grow wolfs teeth and lunge for his throat.

When nothing of the sort happened, he finally pulled it closer to his chest, gingerly finding the opening fold in the blanket, peeling it back to catch a glimpse of the babe. "A little lassie then, aye?"

The babe did not answer him but her little fists did clench and shake as if readying to hit him, he had to give it to her, the girl had spirit to last so long, to glower at him so, a spirit that could not go to waste. That was when he saw the object held in her tiny hand. It took a while to wrestle it from her, and the noise she made, more a shout than a babe's cry when he finally did pluck it from her grasp was equal parts startling as it was painful to hear. Covering the girl back up in the tattered blanket, trying his best to ignore the indignant shouting coming from the girl's little mouth, he inspected the object.

It wasn't big, nor gold. It was hardly longer than his pinky, squarish and flat, amber in shade, opaque with strange, familiar etchings upon its smooth face. He had heard about that writing, seen it once when he was naught but a boy himself... Knew where it came from.

 _The Danes._

"Ah, a Lachina then. Now, what to do wi' ye?" The girls shouting grew until he gave in, handing back the little trinket, watching as the babe shoved a corner into her gummy mouth, suckling on the stone with plops and lip smacks. The little thing was hungry.

"Ye may be young now, but ye'll grow... Grow with a good set of hands. Hands we'll surely need, a good set of hands worth a bit o' coin. Aye, servants are better when wrought from youngin's, obey more they do. Not a pretty life, I'll give ye that, but it's about time them Danes gave something back, better that then leaving ye to die here, don't you say so?" The girl simply sucked harder on the trinket, blinking at him with her doe eyes. He didn't know whether he was trying to convince the babe or himself.

He could try and raise the girl himself, like a good Christian, like a good man, but they would both starve when winter hit. Furthermore, he had never claimed to be a good man. He knew what he was and he would do what he must to survive.

Swaddling the girl tighter in her blanket, setting the girl in the nook of his arm, the man set off the boat and towards the village. Three years later, he would finally sell the girl off to a dye maker from another village for three silver coins, coins that he would never get to spend. For the very same day a rivalling clan invading their village, scouring the land in blood and flesh, his face just one of the many left to rot on the open clearing, his name never to be thought of or spoken again.

 _Forgotten._

* * *

 **Should I continue?**

 **About this fic:** This will be a Ivar/Oc, and while there will be romance, it won't always be centre focus, and it wont be Disney-esque at all. It will take a while to get there because I want my OC to seem realistic, Ivar too, and not come off as they simply meet, get together and then ride off (Or should I say sail?) into the sunset happily ever after. This will also feature heavy doses of Floki, Helga, Aslaug and the Ragnarssons.

Expect swearing, bloodiness, mentions/mild depictions of abuse, smut (Eventually) This fic is a strong M people, take this as warning and turn back if you don't like any of the above mentioned.

 **A.N:** Hello, this is my first ever fanfic and I was debating whether to post it or not when I just thought to hell with it and here we are XD. I have a basic outline for this and I'm quite excited about it, I hope you are too. All spelling mistakes are mine as I don't have a Beta, all though I do try and find them all. Well, I hoped you liked it, please leave a review!

 **~carelessdodger.**


	2. Ten Percent

**Chapter II**  
Ten percent.  
 _~Fourteen years later~_

* * *

Lachina's bare feet plodded against the grating and slightly moist slabs of stone flooring as she dashed for the kitchens in the belly of the building, nearly slipping down the slender staircase in her haste, little slithers of orange light casting from the even more narrow cracks that constituted as windows.

Her iconic mane of red curls were secured into a lone braid that tickled the base of her spine, more out of necessity than style, after all, what did a slave have the need for style? A slave who had not yet realized pretty slaves had less than pretty deaths.

She had grown a lot in her fourteen years of life, even under the harsh conditions she had bloomed in. She had grown lithe in figure, practically sprouting head and shoulders above others her age overnight, with a hint of promising curves under the stained and tattered clothing she wore, constantly hidden from prying eyes.

However, that would be the end of her similarities to the other ladies that pottered about the broche. While they glided across the flooring with practised steps and pretty swirls of velvet skirts, Lachina's were sturdy, heavy and sure, the sound ringing out around corners of the halls and stairs she raced around. While their hands were soft and bird-boned, Lachina's were calloused, nimble and criss-crossed with silvery scars, a telling of her hard work in the stables, or any other task her numerous masters had put her to. While they spoke with lilting accents and graceful laughs, Lachina's was as light as theirs, but constantly holding a sarcastic and derivative gruff to it's edges, scoffs leaping off her lips more often than dulcet laughter. While their bodies were yielding and soft, Lachina's held the fringe of hidden strength from years of toiling work, bold scars lapping at the skin of her thighs and back from the canings she got when her tongue grew too brave for her master's taste. Their bodies told of a summer kissed futures, hers rattled the brutal past. Day and night really.

But they were ladies, Scottish nobles of long lines and blue blood in their delicate veins, and Lachina... Lachina was what her name was. A Dane with sea salt for blood. It was just a nickname in truth, a word the Scottish used to call the men from the north, not a name at all in full honesty, it had just stuck. It was her main selling point, after all, who would not want a Dane as a slave after all they had done to the Scottish populace? A girl with no name was what she was, an outsider in all.

Bumbling into the kitchen, Lachina ignored the helpers, focusing her attentions on circumnavigating around the fierce mistress of the kitchens, Mrs. Mcallen. Her efforts proved fruitless as an unforgiving hand clapped her up the back of the head as she rushed to drop the cheeses, loaves of bread and various fruits onto the ornate silver platter she had plucked from the entrance shelving. "Ye late again lassie! This is the fourth time this week! Ye lucky the king is in such high spirits or he'd chain ye to the lashing pole again and this time I won't be healing ye back for ye! Ye hear me, girl?"

Lachina gave a shaky grin as she rubbed the back of her head gingerly, idly still piling the platter high for breakfast. Mrs. Mcallen was a harsh woman, permanent scowl, heavy-lidded moss eyes that glowered at everything and anything, including song birds, and pursed lips. But she meant well, even if she never spoke like she did. With Mcallen, you had to read between the lines... And then read between those lines too. "Aye, but what else would ye do if it weren't for me and my ways? Sit in here all day, growing even more grey? Admit it, ye like me."

The frown became more severe, even as the elderly woman huffed with red tinged cheeks, reached over the table, picked up a shiny apple and shoved it into the pocket of Lachina's breeches, turning around to the bubbling pot to stir the beef broth inside. "That would be the day. How many years has it been now? Six? I rue every single day. How can anyone like ye? Ye little shite!"

Lachina gave a muted laugh, more a puff of hot air than actual laughter as she dubiously balanced the platter on one hand, peeked around Mcallen's shoulder, gave a peck to her cheek and began to rush for the door as quick as she came, afraid of the repercussions if she didn't rush away as fast as her legs could take her. "I love you too, you old hag!"

At Mcallen's indignant shout and the sound of her waving her spoon at her back, did Lachina finally let loose the laughter bubbling in her gut, vanishing around the winding staircase. "Less of the hag ye walloper!"

Darting up the rest of the stairs, slip and sliding between roaming servants and poised lords and ladies readying for the day ahead, trying to keep the platter balanced as best as she could while she made her way to the very top of the broche, where the king would surely be waiting for his breakfast, Lachina was unfortunately left to her mind's inner musings and wonderings. Something that was never a good sign or act to partake in.

She had been in this place for six years now, and while arduous and bruising like many of the other places she had served, it had not been the worst. The Pictish kingdom was grand and expansive, one of the largest in Scotland and while king Constantín mac Fergusa was a cruel man with an iron grip on his people and land, he was not without total reason or logic. You didn't become king without the brain to back up the brawn. She supposed it was also a plus the king toured his kingdom more than he was ever at his broche, leaving the lower class to rest in peace for a month or two before preparing for his return.

She had been serving a Stable-master, a brutish man with heavy fists, hence her current station at the kings abode, to a clan on the outskirts of Ce when the king had come to claim the land. Like so often, the larger force had won, the clan had been decimated, those living joining the ranks of the Picts, their land, profits, animals, slaves absorbed and Lachina had once again moved on. It was nothing new and she housed no doubt she would be moved on again, perhaps to a better place, or worse, when another, bigger, brighter king took on the Picts. It didn't mean she wanted that to happen, but when had her life ever gone the way she had wanted it to? It was the way of life. Nothing ever lasted long and neither would here. If but one thing, Lachina was adaptable, her life, her station in society, all of it depended on that one little fact.

Of course, that being said, her start under king Fergusa had not been effortless, nor pleasurable. She had been eight at the time, small, gangly-limbed, easy to look over. So easy, they had forgotten she was there to begin with. At the time, she had done what she had been brought up to do, her duties, and so had gone straight to the stable.

She had been too afraid to ask anyone for a cot, food or water, that lesson had been branded into her from early on in life. As they days passed and she was left alone to huddle in the soiled hay of the barn or stable, the soft neighing of the horses her only comfort, starving, weak and alone, she had truly believed she would die there. Then she had met Cinead.

Cinead was the king's youngest son, second heir after Domnall, and even after all these years, she would never know what led the nine-year-old boy, at the time, to be sitting on the sill of the stables lone window, munching away on a slice of buttered bread, spare piece in his hand, one he chucked at her without provocation or plea.

Even in her half-starved state, curled and clawed into a nook of a corner, shivering in the hay and dirt smudged, it didn't take long for Lachina to scuttle out of her corner, snatching the bread up with straining fingers and take a hefty bite from the bread, sighing as she gulped it down only to tear into it with a ferocity rarely seen in humans but more in their animal counterparts. It was when she was nearing the end when her eyes had flickered to the perched boy with shining golden curls watching her intently. She spoke through the mouthful, refusing to give up on eating as much as she can, afraid the boy would try and take it from her, or better yet, tell one of the guards or nobles she had stolen it from him. If it was already eaten, they would have no proof, well, that was her childish reasoning at the time. Now she knew the truth. A nobles word, even if a blatant lie, would always be believed over that of someone like her. "Wa' do ye want? Quit staring, before I poke ye eyes out!"

Cinead, or as she called him at the time, simply the boy frowned at her, almost looking ridiculous on his cherubic and clean face. Something she had never seen before, such smooth skin. It bewildered her at the time, to see someone so... Spotless. "Did your mother teach you those manners? She must have been a very poor teacher indeed."

At the prodding of the sorest part of her psyche, her life, a reminder she would never have the one thing she wanted most, parents, Lachina had snarled at the boy, looking less than threatening with a crumb of bread stuck between her front teeth. It was also funny in a way, she, a slave who was named after a land she had never seen, talked and acted more like a Scot than he did with his folded hands, tiny bites and flowery accent, a fact she had later learned was because he was fostered for most of his life down in Mercia with an earl with some sort of pedantic title. "I ain't got no mother."

The boy had hopped off the sill, grimacing as his fresh, pristine boots squelch into the mud, pulling one foot up to inspect it before he carried on, refusing to come any closer, likely afraid to soil his clothing any further than he already had. Lachina had remembered scorning him in her mind, thinking he was more a girl than she would ever be. "That's not what I heard. I heard my father talking to the stable master, debating whether you could be of use or not... I heard you are a Dane..."

His tone was hushed, conspiring, his sky blue gaze dodging to the door before pinning back at her. Lachina scoffed. The boy seemed clueless, sheltered, insipid even, the way he had glossed over the use of her or not told her that much, he had no clue what any of it meant. Lachina did. Lachina knew what happened to people deemed un-useful. She had seen them hanging from trees when their masters grew bored or a baby swelled their stomach. Seen their bodies floating down streams and rivers when they had run out of duties to complete or were injured too badly to carry on.

 _Death._

Mindlessly, her hand freed it's tight grip on the bread to feel at her necklace of cord, fraying and aged, the amber hiding beneath her shirt. She had been told it was the one thing she was found with, a trinket from her mother. The last tie she had to a person she had not met and never would. She had taken to hiding it when one master saw the etchings and ripped it from her neck, throwing it into the lit hearth after beating her for having a heathen object in the sanctity of his home, storming out when his anger ran dry. She had burned her hands horribly to retrieve it from the smouldering flames.

At the time, eight-year-old Lachina had shaken her head, urging the upsetting thoughts to fly from her mind and never roost there again. Growing vexed at the boy and her own thoughts, she had thrown the scrap of bread left from her ravenous attentions onto the scabby floor, pushing up to a stand. "I'm no Dane. I've lived here as long as ye have."

The boy grew brave as an impish smile lit up his face, brighter than the sun, seemingly forgetting the state of his clothing too as he hopped over to her. "So, you're Scottish then?"

No. Never. She would never be a Scot. They, everyone in this land had made that abundantly clear, even if she remembered no other place but these hills and marshes. Being frank, she would never want to be one either. She would never own a broche. She would never adorn tartan. She would never own slaves. Never. She was as much a Scot as a fish was a bird. Lachina pushed passed the boy, shoulder harshly bumping his as she stormed passed, mind on fulfilling her duties now she knew the king was debating whether she was needed or not, growling at him under her breath. "I ain't no bloody Scot either."

On her way to the door, she could hear the confused shuffling of the boy behind her, his uneasy intake of breath only for no noise or words to come forth as he floundered. Served the fucker right. With his clothing, clean skin, intelligent and flowery speech, she would bet her left arm he was some lord or ladies piglet. The last thing a little lamb like him would expect was not to get the answers he wanted.

And he never would, not from her. For one, she liked to believe, even at this young age, she wasn't an emotional person who daydreamed of flowers and white knights, always speaking in poetry and bloody undying love, the only time someone would ever know her hearts musings would be when they cut it, still beating, from her chest.

And two, the sad fact was she actually had no answers to give. She wasn't a Scot, she wasn't a Dane... She didn't know what she was. However, despite her desperate attempt to get away from the boy, he finally spoke up before she could unlock the stable's door. "Well, what are you then?"

Her hand tightened around the brass handle of the door, a lump of searing coal barring her throat, if she didn't answer the boy, he could go to his lord father about her and she would be reprimanded. Lachina could still remember the hollowness that quaked through her being, an empty shell as she was forced to voice what her mind had always whispered to her in the dead of the night. "Nothing. I'm nothing little lordling."

The crisp and glacial air of winter tingled her skin and stung her nose, stabbing through her thin clothes as the door creaked and swung open. She managed to take a lone step before her body tensed and came to a stuttering halt, a warm, soft and gentle hand enveloping the sharp swooping bone of her shoulder. The boy's voice was loud in her ear, jovial and booming. She didn't like it. "You're not nothing. You're my friend."

Lachina yanked her shoulder out from beneath his hand, twirling to glower at the boy. People like her, slaves, they didn't make friends, especially with starry-eyed, apple-cheeked, carefree lordlings who couldn't even handle a spot of mud on their boots. Her accent was thick and broken when she spoke. "I never agreed to tha'. I ain't ye friend. I ain't nobody's friend!"

The boys following laughter felt like bursts of white clouds, fluffy and light, glazed golden by the sunshine in summer. "You don't have to agree, I've already decided. You're my friend and that's the end of that."

And, as it turned out to be, that really was the end of that. Cinead, even back then, while lacking in strength and intelligence, was as stubborn as an oak tree when he set his mind to something. It took him years, chipping away bit by bit patiently before she finally surrendered and called him a friend, even when she swore at him and threw rocks and pebbles at his head. Now, given the chance to go back and change any of it, she wouldn't.

He was the one good thing in her small, desolate and forsaken world. He made her laugh with his amiable nature and ever-present grin. He was the first person to show her the world was not always doom and gloom, death, strife and grief. He made her smile when she never thought she could or would again. He was the one she would sneak off with, scaling the ramparts to watch the men train in the field below, using twigs to copy the moves they had spied with brisk and teetering swings and dodges that ended up with them rough-housing on the floor. She always won in the end, Cinead, for all his givings, was much more a diplomat than a warrior. He was her friend, her only one, and for that, she would protect him until her dying breath.

By the time Lachina had made it to the king's personal quarters, she was pushing twenty minutes late, slightly out of breath and trying to reign in her thoughts with vicious yanks. Straightening out and re-arranging the wheel of cheese that was tempting fate by balancing on the very edge of the platter, Lachina took in one last deep breath and promptly knocked three times on the elaborate oak door in front of her. Hearing the muffled shout of enter, she did as she was bid to.

The king's quarters were always a sight to behold, with lavish tapestries of battlefields and raging wars hanging off stone walls, broken up by torch sconce's, the long table in the very middle, placed on a rug of finest wool with bowls, goblets and plates of shining gold glittering on top, to the large stone hearth at the very end, always alight with crackling fire. You really couldn't help but stop and stare for just a moment, even if you had seen it a million times before.

The king was pushing his later years now, mahogany hair littered with the greys that formed his beard, deep wrinkles scoring the crease between brows and around his thin lips, always making him look severe and grim. He was already seated at the head of the table, head cradled in one hand, idly flicking his meat knife on the table with the other, producing a soft thud, thud, thud.

Domnall was sitting to his right, arms crossed over leather tunic and wiry frame, looking the spitting image of his father, only missing the age and sly wisdom that haunted his father's grey eyes, in full honesty, he looked petulant nearly consistently, as if he was always sucking on soured goats milk.

Cinead was there too, sitting at the other end of the long table, far out of reach of his brother and father, the only one to greet her with a bright smile, his golden wavy hair longer now, nearly brushing the tip of his shoulder blades, braided away from his soft and delicately boned face at the front, sparse white blonde whiskers lining the top of his lips, even after all the times she had told him to shave because he looked absurd, as well as she couldn't look at him any longer without laughing at the poor state of his would be moustache.

Lachina swiftly bowed her head, more of a sharp nod than an actual bow, as she trooped to the table, sighing under her breath as her bare feet met cosy sheep's wool, toes digging into the rug for warmth she might leech out. The room was eerily silent apart from the crackling of the hearth fire, as the platter scrapped across the glossed wood of the table, Lachina bowing once more, or more accurately, her version of a bow, before pulling away and trying to head for the door. The huff from king Fergusa froze her where she stood, his voice void but equally acidic. "And what do we say, girl?"

With her back facing the king and his sons, Lachina took a few seconds to compose herself, biting down the mounting flare of her pride and dignity. One breath, two breaths, three breaths. Chin raised a fraction, hands clasping one another in front of her, nails digging into the soft skin of her palm, Lachina turned and gave a small smile, as real as Cinead's moustache. "My king, princes."

The king scanned her, gaze settling on her eyes despite her own refusal to look into his, hoping he would not see the embers of defiance gleaming in the pools of chartreuse. Lachina could hear the prominent scoff Domnall gave, but despite her best efforts, she could not stop her eyes from straying to her friend, Cinead, the only comfort she would find in this hellish room. She was not disappointed, not when he gave her a grin. However long the relief lasted, it was still a relief.

It was no secret the king did not look kindly on her and Cinead's friendship, and that was speaking kindly on the matter. For self-survival, she should have ended it before it began, especially when the king made his opinion loud and clear, but for the life of her, literally in this case, she could not. These people, these Scots, they had taken her home, taken her freedom, taken her name too, like hell would she let them take her spirit too, no matter how downtrodden and broken it may seem some nights. Just as this thought crossed her mind, she saw the kings jaw clench, the muscles straining as if he had peeked into her thoughts himself.

Thankfully, whatever was to come by this development, likely another lashing, was interrupted as the oak doors behind her slammed open, the sound of pounding footsteps thundering out behind her. Her head snapped around so fast she could feel the muscles of her neck twinge and groan their agitation at her.

A man in peasant's armour stood at the door, leaning heavily against the frame, broken sword dangling vainly at his side. He was caked in dark red gunk, blood or mud, both likely and both just as un-identifiably smeared across his skin in thick, flaking layers as he sagged and huffed in deep breathes like a dying fish, skull cap sitting skew-whiff on his balding head. "My king, they're back! We need men-"

The screeching of the king's chair being pushed back rang in her ears, and with just enough sense left in her, Lachina bowed her head low, backing up against the wall, hoping to become invisible and escape while she still could. Unfortunately, the man, a soldier by the looks of it, was blocking the only exit room.

The king prowled around the table, one finger brushing the top almost lovingly as he came to the soldier in the doorway, patting Domnall on the shoulder as he sauntered passed him. The sound and glare from the king were obviously enough to quieten the soldier's tongue. "Slow down laddie, who are back?"

The soldier scrambled to find his bearings, blinking speedily as he pushed away from the door frame, only now did Lachina spy through her lowered lids the limp he held from the gaping wound in his thigh. When he began to speak, slower this time and lest panic ridden, Lachina began to edge for the door, planning on slipping by before anyone could look her way. "The Danes my king. They're back, raiding along our coastline villages of Fortriu, it will only be a matter of time before they find their way to our inner kingdom... To ye and this very broche. We need weapons, lot'of weapons and able men... Anything to fight them off my liege!"

Lachina was by the door now, nearly free from this claustrophobic room when she saw the soldier's eyes flicker to her as he spat out the word Dane, she stiffened under the inaudible slight thrown her way, the obvious scorn searing her skin despite her not even knowing the land these raiders had come from, neither knowing them or their names and faces. Of course. It was no secret where she came from, it had become her main selling point, come have a Dane for yourself for only three silvers, some only taking her in because they wanted retribution against a raid or killed clan members, not able to differentiated between her and the people they saw storming beaches and monasteries. Her blunt nails finally caved to the pressure of her balled fist, slicing crescent moons into her palm.

Unfortunately for Lachina, the stalling had sent her onto a path she would never escape from, if only she had of kept going for the door, leaving before the king cut his gaze to her, smile playing on his lips as he saw her smothered anger. With ease and a light air despite the dire news, the king rubbed at his beard, strolling closer to the soldier, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder, causing the soldier to eye him warily. "Men and weaponry are what ye will have then. Take ten percent of the men of this broche and a quarter of our armoury-"

The soldier made the fatal error of spluttering and cutting the king off, eyes growing wide. Lachina took this as a sign to get out of there, resuming her slow and unassuming slither to the door "My king, we need more than that! The Danes are ruthless with many ships docked-"

The soldier gave a muted groan as the king tightened his grip on his shoulder. "Ten percent of the men and a quarter of our armoury, that is all ye will take, do ye here me? Do ye want to leave ye'r king and sovereign liege undefended?"

Lachina was just passed the soldier now, a few steps away from the corner and away from sight and hearing. Just a few more steps. The soldier's tone was grim and forlorn when he muttered his acceptance. "No... My king."

Just one more step before she was around the corner, one little step. The sound of a clap rang out and what the king said next froze her blood, clogged her veins, fogged her brain, squeezed her chest. "Good! One last thing... Take the Lachina with ye. It's about time she saw what her people did to innocents. Mayhaps, it will teach her to mind her manners and be more grateful of her station and how we treat her. The same canny be said for the poor souls the heathens drag back to their forsaken land."

This time, the soldier wasn't the only one to grow flustered and splutter, pupils pinpoints and adrenalin pumping through her being as she snapped back around, eyeing the king as if he was a mad hound let free from his chains. She could hardly think, let alone bring herself to answer. "My king, there's no need for a young girl on the field-"

The king grinned at her, seeing her just out in the hallway, half blocked by the door but still visible, wolf toothed and hawk-eyed. "Then find one! Have her sharpen the weapons, fetch the water, keep and stable the horses, warm the soldiers beds, I care not. Just... Take her."

Lachina tried to swallow, tried to gasp for much-needed air, but nothing seemed to work, frozen, a block of ice left to grow roots in the stone flooring and with three words, her fate was sealed. "Aye, my king."

The soldier swivelled, pinned her with a glare, snatched her up by the back of her shirts neck cuff and began dragging her to the direction of the entrance of the broche and still, she could not utter a protest, even when she heard Cinead shouting for his father to think and reconsider.

 _They were all going to be slaughtered._

* * *

 **Up Next:**

Chapter III

 _ **The hatchet.**_

Sneak peak: Vikings clash against the Scots. An ambush takes place and someone sneaks along to the battle who should not be there.

* * *

 **This Chapter:**

I've tried to keep things as accurate as possible, that being said, I am in no way a historian and has likely messed some things up, (Perhaps a lot XD) in this chapter and the ones to follow, so please be gentle. XD However, the places, Ce, Fortriu, the Pictish kingdom, king Constantine mac Furgusa and his son Domnall were all real and active around the same time as this is set.

Cinead and Mcallen, however, are fictional and totally imagined.

Please excuse any miss-spellings or grammar mistakes, I do try and catch as many as I can but I'm sure my net has holes and I have no Beta to patch them up.

* * *

 **A.N - PLEASE READ:**

Thank you so much to every single person who reviewed, followed and gave a favourite. I wouldn't be continuing this without you guys and your kind words, and I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter. To any new readers, if there are any, welcome and I hope you liked this too :)

If you could please drop a review, they make me smile and give me inspiration, even if it's just a word or two.

Well, that's it for now, I'm out! _**~Carelessdodger**_


	3. The Hatchet

**IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ OR SOME OF THIS CHAPTER WILL NOT MAKE SENSE!**

Of course, doing a Vikings fic, you're going to run into the problem of the whole multiple languages, very old, very complicated languages all going on, and me being me, I've have made it even harder for myself by adding the Scottish language to it.

I originally tried to translate everything, old Norse, old English and keep the Scottish speaking the way it has been in this fic so far. Problem is, it's very hard to translate things into these languages, some words just not translating at all and in no shape or form am I a linguist, so bare with me, I have found a way around this, which I've used this chapter. Here it is:

When someone is speaking in old Norse or English, it will be bold or italicized, however, it will still be written in English, telling you they're speaking a different language but letting you know what they are saying at the same time, and because Lachina doesn't speak anything but Scottish, you won't go, wait, what? when she doesn't understand what they are saying. HOWEVER, that will only apply when Lachina is around the Vikings, if it's just the Vikings, it will just be normal speech and writing like with Lachina and the Scots. Example:

 **"Hello."- Old Norse, bold.**

 _"Hello."-_ _Old English, Italicized._

"Hello."- Scottish, normal. (When just Vikings are just present, when Lachina learns Old Norse, then also Old Norse.)

See? I hope I explained that well enough. However, if anyone has a better idea, please, please, please let me know! This was really the only thing I could think of to get around the problem I created XD.

Without further ado, here's chapter three!~carelessdodger

* * *

 **Chapter III**

The Hatchet

 _~15 days ago, Kattegat.~_

Aslaug could feel the grains of sand digging into the crevices of her toes, little waves of sea salt lapping at her feet, damp and icy crystals clawing at her skin as the sea retreated and re-bathed the shore. It was the only thing she could feel, the fog rolling in giant barrels from the sea, the sharp wind whipping around her, the sudden wintry chill that blanketed Kattegat despite it being the beginning of the summer months when she laid her head down to slumber.

She knew what was happening, knew that pit in her stomach all too well. She was dreaming again, seeing things to come, spying possibilities, visions that were as abstract and unapologetic as the gods themselves.

She was standing at the very shoreline of Kattegat, right by the docks, simply draped in the pale yellow shift she had climbed into bed in. Floki stood in front of her a few feet away, in the sea waist deep, bare-chested, smiling crookedly, staring just to her right, even as Aslaug heard the splash and plod of someone running towards him, the yells, high pitched and rushed, distant and distorted. Here, she was simply a watcher, a witness, not a queen, mother, or even human.

"Floki! Reach for me! Take my hand! Please! Floki!"

It took effort, Aslaug's own mind slightly dazed and slowly churning, as she turned her gaze to the newcomer who had waded into the sea, arms outstretched, fingers splayed, dress soaking in the water and bogging the blonde woman down. Helga. Despite Helga's best attempts, the swing of her arms, the frantic steps she took, Helga seemingly moved nowhere, stuck, barricaded from the one she wanted to reach so desperately.

Floki giggled, the sound far louder than it should have been, rattling and echoing through Aslaug's very being. Helga's immobile dashing for him became even more distraught. Oddly, the water was still and reflective around her, unchanged by the thrashing and flailing of her small body as she tried to get to her husband.

However, it seemed her husband did not want to be reached, not when he took a step back, followed by another, another and another. Steadily, he began to sink and wither into the water. Inch by inch he was swallowed whole, body, neck, jaw, nose, his eyes lingering a moment longer before they too took to the depths of the sea and finally, he was gone, under sea foam and small ripples.

No air bubbles came, nothing but that damned unnatural stillness to the water, although, Aslaug and presumably Helga by the way she never stopped trying to get to him, could see his shadow, just a mass with no distinguishable features, undulate, murky and inky, still beneath the surface of the water.

Aslaug could feel her heart pounding, a knocking against her fragile ribcage that shook her sternum. Something was wrong... No. Not wrong, just different. Something was happening, something big. Floki must have been only under there a second or two, even if it felt like a lifetime when he began to come back up... only it wasn't his woodland brown hair, short and balding, that glistened under the sun.

Fire and blood, it was the only way Aslaug could describe the colour of the curls that materialized from the motionless sea, strangely dry despite coming from the water, pursued by the same coloured arching brows and then the eyes came.

Aslaug had never quite seen eyes as vibrantly green like those, nor the clashing yellow that proudly and starkly ringed her pupils thickly. The skin around her eyes, the bridge of her nose and temples were painted sapphire blue, smudged down in three sharp lines against one cheekbone. They were the eyes of a predator, lurking in shadows, panting for blood and flesh and death.

 _They were the eyes of Fenrir..._

Aslaug's heart stopped beating, the wind stopped howling, Helga froze in her place, the sea stopped its tide as the person with Fenrir's eyes grew into being from the depths of the sea. A delicate nose, flushed lips tangled into a snarl of pointed fang, proud chin. Then the neck and body appeared, risen, wrapped in onyx ropes that conflicted beautifully against the woman's, yes, definitely a woman, summer cloud coloured skin, just a hint of golden under all the paleness, furs her only covering.

The woman began walking forward, sure step by sure step, the sea around her crackling and freezing behind her, around her, a torrent of snow now cascading onto the beach, smothering land and buildings alike, the mountains in the distance, the bare woodlands, a harbinger of winter.

One by one the ropes began to fray and fall away, by the force of the woman's strides or by some unknown external force, Aslaug didn't know, but she did know when Helga began to cry and weep, still stuck in the very spot she had been all along, frozen now. By the end, all that was left was the woman in black and silver furs encasing shoulders and torso, over bare blue swirl painted skin, a shining war axe clasped in her left hand and a lone rope tightly wrapped around the woman's neck.

The woman continued her fixed march to Helga, eyes... Those godly eyes never straying from their fixed point, which Aslaug believed was Helga. However, when Helga held out a hand for the woman to grasp, straining in her direction, did Aslaug finally understand Helga was not weeping in fear nor abandonment but in joy. The very tips of their fingers barely brushed when the earth shuddered and quaked so hard it sent Aslaug falling to her knees, crashing to the sand to keep balance, growing wide-eyed as the sky began to darken too quickly, the sun being eclipsed by a moon too big for the horizon, too gigantic to be real.

Then, through it all, Aslaug heard what sounded eerily like the seer's voice, right at the shell of her ear, breath moist and frigid, the smell of death and change lingering over each word like a thunder cloud.

 _It shall be then, when the air turns white and gray, when the moon eclipses the sun, when the mountain shrinks and waters freeze your ships silent, the lost one shall return home with the knocking of three dead. Fenrir and Jormungandr encased in human flesh, re-united. Those who crawl on their belly will stand tall, their names on the tongue of every man for generations. Those who walk tall will fall, eclipsed by them like the sun to the moon, wrapped in green and silver scales and flames, mouths forever sown closed... Ragnarok is coming for one kingdom... Three dead. Three war-torn kingdoms. Three knocks. Two legends. Two betrayals... One rebirth._

"...Ingrid!..."

Aslaug didn't know whether the name came from her own trembling lips, Helga's shout or the voice whispering sweetly in her ear, but it was the loudest thing she had ever heard, ingraining inside her, bubbling her blood and bones, searing her brain, charring her skin.

Aslaug, still kneeling upon the beach, felt a shuffling to her left, her neck craning up achingly to look at the man standing tall beside her, looking out to sea.

Ivar. Her precious Ivar. However, he wasn't her Ivar, he couldn't be. He was older by a few years, hair grown out on top and twisted back from his face in rows, ending in a braid that tickled the base of his neck. Adorned in black leathers, one arm encased in glittering chain-mail, he was a sight to behold, a man in all, a man she had always known he would become. A man who was standing. Her Ivar was standing.

Aslaug felt a sob jarring in her chest, her hand quivering as it snaked out from the icy sands, fingers indenting and grasping the leather of his breeches, but that did not stop him from walking away, tugging free, towards the sea, into the sea, away from her. Ivar, her Ivar was walking. He did not spare her one glance, even as she tried to move but found she could not, even as she shouted his name with everything she could muster.

"Ivar!"

It was only as Ivar waded to the woman, close to her now, did a part of the seer's prophecy make sense. Her son, who slithered and crawled among the muck and dirt, half snake if there ever could be such a thing, was Jormungandr bound to bone and structure. The woman, with eyes of the great beast and hair of blood, could be no one else but Fenrir wearing the guise of human skin.

A lone tear slipped from her eyelash, trickling down her cheek as all she could do was watch. Watch as the woman lifted a hand out of the sea and her furs, wrapping her knuckles into the front of Ivar's shirt and promptly dragged them both into the sea, back the same way she had come, only know Aslaug realizing the woman had never been walking towards Helga, but to her son. Ivar didn't fight, didn't protest, he willingly went under and then they were both gone. The sun returning, summer breeze caressing Aslaug's flushed face, all still and peaceful once more, only Helga's and Aslaug's unhindered shouts and screams piercing the tranquil air.

Aslaug tried to even her breathing, perched on the side of her bed, hand scrubbing at her eyes, her shift drenched in sweat, beads glistening on her forehead. However, no amount of scrubbing would wipe away the vivid memory of Ivar's head sinking into the watery depths imprinted onto her eyelids. She didn't know what it all meant, her dreams were never so gracious, likely, she would know when it was all too late to do something about it.

In spite of all this, the dream, vision, puzzle that was to come, the ominous overtone of it all, she did not fear for her son, nor fear his imminent death. Often in her dreams, death did not overtly mean death. No, that would be too simple for the messages the gods gave her. Death, normally, meant change, great change, irrevocable, effervescent and burning reconstruction.

Right now, alone in her bedchamber, slick with sweat and haunted by her vision, she could already feel the winds shift, telling of something coming, with the lack of goosebumps and oozing nerves she normally got when warned of something bad, something evil, this change was neither of those. However, this revelation did not ease her nerves fully. She was a mother, Ivar her son, nothing, when it came to him, would ever fully calm her, especially when she knew it involved him.

Her muscles spasmed and groaned in protest as she pushed up, strolling to her chest to dig out some furs to warm her skin as she went to breakfast. She was the queen of Kattegat, and as queen, she would need to oversee the next few days closely, leaving little time to ponder and pick apart her prophetic dreams. With the summer growing warmer each day, the first raid of the year was expected to take place very soon, the ships leaving in the next four to nine days, depending on the weather, mayhaps even sooner with how warm this year was turning out to be. An oddity itself.

This year was a special year for her sons Ubbe and Hvitserk, her first born on his second raid and her second born on his very first. She had denied Hvitserk in the beginning, still seeing him with his chubby cheeks and dribble dripping chin, when Ubbe had promised to look after him... And Floki promising to look after the both. She had finally caved and since then, had not seen the end of their excitement. That was when she heard the muffled raised voices coming from the great hall, making her sigh heavily as she wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and made her way to the noise, thinking her sons were arguing again.

However, when she slipped through the beaded partition, she was greeted not with her sons, but with the bed riddled form of Helga and Floki, the latter trying fruitlessly to drag the former back to the open door, speaking to her in hushed, calming tones. Helga batted his hands away, adamantly strolling to Aslaug's direction, finally locking eyes with Aslaug when Helga saw the taller woman hovering in the doorway. By the bloodshot eyes and blown pupils, Aslaug knew, just knew what had transpired.

"You had the dream... You know who she is..."

* * *

 _~Present day: Scotland~_

Lachina had been on the march for a few days now, restless, worrisome, mundane days filled with sitting in a cramped tent in the middle of a bustling field, picking up discarded weapons and fixing what she could. Thankfully, despite the soldier's, who had dragged her along and out of the kings parlour, obvious distaste for her, he had not gone with the last option the king had put forward, that of being a bed warmer.

So she was left, more often than not, alone in the makeshift tent, told to fix this or that, even if she didn't know how. Really, she couldn't complain much, she had broth and bread each night, a fire to warm herself by and something to keep her mind and hands busy, much more than she would have back at the broche.

Hearing a muted ouch from the other side of the small tent, Lachina flickered her gaze from the sword she was sharpening to Cinead, who had clearly nicked himself on the dagger he had been playing with, flicking his finger in the air a few times before plopping the digit into his mouth to suckle at the drop of blood seeping out there. Bloody bullheaded, stubborn, idiotic boy.

The blonde menace with shit for brains had turned up on the second day of the march, walking around the camp they had settled in like he owned the place, given, he sort of did. Still, the first time she had spotted his cursed crop of blonde hair in the mists of the roaming crowds, she had snatched his arm as he walked passed her tent, dragged him into the depths to snarl and hit him solidly around that bulbous head of his. Someone had to knock some sense into him, and if she was the only one daring enough to do it, so be it. "What are ye bloody doing here?"

He had the audacity to laugh, full bellied and crooning laughter that grated on her ear drums, at her. Then he spoke and Lachina wanted to ring his neck with her bare hands, doing the job the Danes would surely do if they got their hands on him. She had never felt as murderous as she did then, how stupid could one boy be? Nor as insulted by Cinead, her best friend that was supposed to know her better than anyone else, by each word that fluttered passed his lips. "What? Don't look at me like that Lachina, I wanted to see the Danes too. I mean, I've seen you but then again, you're not a real Dane now are you."

Lachina huffed and pulled herself away from him as if he had burned her, a fact he seemed to pick up on when his eyes grew wider a fraction before taking on that look she hated all too much. Pity. Fuck Cinead. Fuck Pity. Fuck everything and everyone.

Scoffing, Lachina turned her back on him, going back to work on re-wrapping the hilt of a broadsword with a strip of boiled leather. Her voice was dubiously calm and trickily airy when she spoke, showing Cinead just how deep he had cut with his thoughtless speech, a problem he had always suffered from and plausibly wouldn't fix any time soon. "I didn't take ye as a bumbling fool before, good for ye for proving me wrong. Think Cinead, I know a brain has to be in there somewhere, do ye think I would be here given the option not to be? The Danes, they're not someone or something to poke with a stick and gawk at. The king, ye'r father ordered me here, ye... Ye had the bloody choice! Does ye'r Daddy know he's precious boy is here or did ye sneak away like a petulant toddler whose been told no?"

The silence that followed showed Lachina how sheepish Cinead had turned, telling her the answer she needed loud and clear. Cursing loudly, Lachina threw the broadsword down into the mud at her feet, hearing it clink of a protruding rock, dashing the strap of leather there too in her anger as she rounded on him, eyes ablaze and bizarrely glowing in the dim light of the tent. "Ye fuckin' eejit! It won't be ye he'll kill and flay when he hears of this, it will be me!"

Cinead rolled his shoulders in wide circles before running a hand roughly down his face, clean, despite their dank surroundings. "It won't be so bad-"

Lachina marched up to him but lost her steam as she looked into his eyes, the cracks in her well-made mask falling apart at the seams as her voice grew slightly croaky, gruff, one hand reaching to grasp at his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "For once in ye short life, take this not as a joke Cinead. We're out-manned, outmatched, our weapons are bloody falling apart as we speak, the men are old, tired and injured from other battles and we have yet to face the Danes... Ye could die here... This is no' a game."

Cinead gave her one if his smiles, the smile that could normally melt her worries away, only this time, it tripled them. He knocked her hand off from his shoulder and brought her into a tight hug, her head slipping into the nook of where his neck met shoulder, hunching a little because she was taller than him, facing away so he could not see the grim twist her features had taken, the bite to her bottom lip, the downwards slant of her eyes.

She had to fight with everything she had to bring her arms up and hug Cinead back, afraid this could be the last hug the two would share, one or both dead and rotting on some field, being pecked and ate by birds and wild dogs by the end of all this madness. "Worry not, the man at arms knows I'm here, Domnall knows I'm here, he's the one who helped me get out of the broche. Do you really think Domnall would send me to my death if he thought it possible? We'll fight off the Vikings, return home, mayhaps with a new battle scar to have the ladies of court croon and awe over!"

Yes, Domnall would send Cinead to his death, gladly. Cinead would not hear nor see this, though, he was too kind, trusting and hopeful to. It was no secret Domnall loathed his younger brother, the rumours of King Fergusa passing Domnall to hand the crown down to Cinead upon his deathbed being no secret in the broche. For Domnall, this all played out brilliantly. His brothers death but none of the blame.

For once, Lachina kept her tongue quiet in her mouth and thoughts locked in her mind. Pulling away from Cinead, she had tried to scowl at him, perhaps another hit or two to set him straight, but his cheeky smile and sparkling eyes only brought laughter out of her. She felt trapped by it, that little bubble of happiness and jovial nature around them. It was when you were happy you were at your weakest, the time when things began to go bad, the time you had things to loose. When would be the next time they could laugh freely? Would they ever get to laugh again at all when the Scots clashed against the Danes?

No. She would not let it come to that. Never that. She would protect him, she had too, she promised god and more importantly herself. After all, she would just be a long forgotten, nameless slave girl with no family, friends, mark left behind. Cinead, he would become a great king, kind hearted and with an open mind, the type of king people like her, orphans, the forgotten, downtrodden, chained and beaten people would need in this dark times. He would be the person to end that, to give hope to the hopeless, if he were to die, he would be missed. In comparison, her life was nothing but a splodge of dung against Cinead's golden hue'd future.

When the battle began, or just before if she was lucky, if she was fast enough and her wit was sharp, she could snatch Cinead away from the onslaught. She could hide him. Dammit, she would tie him to a tree upside down for thirty days if it meant he would live through this. And then, when the time came, she would take what punishment he would give her with a smile upon her face.

Lachina was on her fifth axe, this one suffering from a completely broken handle, dusk enshrouding them like a sheet, Cinead lounging next to her, dagger long discarded, plucking from a platter of wild berries and breads when the dreaded shout came, a shout that told her she would have no time to squirrel Cinead away as they marched on for the next couple of days, other men echoing it on, passing it along in a chorus of hectic yells and wails, the roar of rampage soon following. "Ambush!"

Cinead, who had not previously strayed more than two foot from her side since his first appearance, scrambled up, knocking the platter over in his rush to the tent's entrance, opening the flap with one long sweep of his arm. From her vantage point, she could see the men running around outside, unsheathing their swords, picking up their discarded shields, the bellows and shouts never ceasing in tempo or volume.

Cinead blindly picked up a sword propped against the entrance of the tent, an old one by the looks of the rust marring its face, and went to leave. In her own haste to follow him, her mind swirling and heart pounding, planning on somehow, some way, miraculously getting him out of here, she forgot about the broken axe in her hand, distantly hearing it plod into the mud as she too ran out of the tent.

It was nothing short of absolute chaos and mayhem outside the sanctuary of her tent, the men around her seemingly couldn't decide on a direction to run, crossing over one another, opposites, some falling, some kicking others down, but near all were either looking or glancing in one direction. Following their line of sight, Lachina nearly toppled over herself, Cinead, thankfully, stalling in his own movements to gaze at the same place she was, his normally healthily flushed cheeks growing pale at the sight.

Upon a small hill to the north of their camp-site, nothing more than a slooping incline really, stood the Danes. Lachina had never seen the Vikings before, she had heard about them plenty, for sure, but to actually see them, the people she supposedly came from... To see them there, some looking as if they were laughing, hooting at them, watching as the men bellow in the clearing bustled and frantically prepared for the oncoming fight, Lachina could only describe them as one thing. Absolutely terrifying.

Feeling fear did not make you a coward. Fear, and overcoming that fear in the face of adversity, looking into its eyes and telling it to fuck off, that was what made you a brave man. Lachina was and never would be a coward. Swallowing deeply, just as the Danes began to descend the hill in one broad sweep, thanking whatever god that was looking down upon her that Cinead had still not moved, frozen in shock or fear, his first time ever facing the horrendous truth that was war, she did not know, but it played to her hand, Lachina sprinted to his stone figure, seizing his hands and tugging harshly as she shouted over the battle cries and booming noise. "Cinead!... Cinead! Run! We have to run!"

Dammit, no matter how loud she shouted, how hard she pulled on his arm, how viciously she dug her blunt nails into the tender skin of the underside of his wrist, he would not budge, nor would he move away from the storming Danes who were just beginning to clash against the Scots in a synchronized wave of shield and jostling stabs, a wave that encompassed their entire camp, cornering them, putting them in a deadlock. Lachina, even when King Fergusa invaded her small village all those years ago, had never heard such noises before, so loud, so blood curdling... So close. Cinead looked sick now, seconds away from hacking up his guts and to be completely fair, Lachina wasn't feeling all that much better than him.

Lachina stopped her tugging, stopped her shouting as she scanned the area around her, the men, the Scots were thinning out, which could mean only one thing. The Danes were winning, just like she knew they would. Fuck, they didn't have much time, she wouldn't die here, in the middle of a field, frozen to the spot and like hell would she let Cinead die this way either. Snarling and with one final heave to twist Cinead to face her, Lachina did the only thing she could think of. She backhanded him. He spluttered, his lip splitting slightly as he blinked and frowned at her, cradling his cheek. "Cinead, get ye'r head out ye'r arse! We have to run!"

He blinked in quick succession as if trying to clear the fog obviously glazing his eyes and mind. Then, thank everything and everyone, he gave a jarring nod, his hand finally coming up to her own to hold it, his grip bruisingly tight. "Run... Yes, run!"

Lachina didn't need to be told twice, both their feet kicking up mud, squelching and slipping in the soggy ground as they hurtled for the east side of their camp-site, where a small splattering of tree's huddled together, the only covering for miles around. It wasn't much, but compared to the open landscape, highlands and lochs, it would be their best bet at survival.

Regardless of their men thinning out, the crowd was still thick, too thick as the two teens tried to bulldoze and scuttle their way through the mass of writhing bodies and swinging weaponry. Lachina had lost count of the number of times they had to duck, dive or slide away from a drawn back broadsword or an axe mid swing. It looked like many of the men left had the same thought she had, to head to the woods, it made sense, the Scots were better at fighting in woodland, climbing tree's to only drop down on an unsuspecting victim at last second, an ambush in itself. Only, it wouldn't work when every fucker was heading to the woods, it would be too packed, too close and they would be overpowered within the hour.

Lachina could feel Cinead's grip slack a fraction, causing her to look his way with feverish eyes, just in time to see a sword swinging down between them, where their arms met, from a soldier who had lost all marbles had had just began slicing madly, at friend and foe. They let go of each others hands, both falling to their backsides as the sword lodged itself into the ground between them.

Lachina scrambled up, slipping once or twice in her briskness to get around the soldier and regroup with Cinead, only... He wasn't there. Her chest heaved, her hands shook, her neck snapping left and right as she tried to spot his blonde hair but only saw death and bedlam. Then she saw him, a few feet away being pushed and shoved in the opposite direction they should have been going, the direction where the Danes had stormed from. She began to run forward, the curls and locks of her plait coming undone and frizzing around her face, eyes wide, caked in mud, she screamed, by god almighty did she scream, the sound melting into the orchestra of death rattles, clanking and war cries. "Cinead! Cinead!"

He was too far away, or too lost as his vibrant golden hair finally disappeared from view, smothered by the bodies, alive and dead, between them. Gone. Separated. He could be dying right now and all she could do was push and shove her way slowly to where she had last saw him, feeling for all her worth she wasn't moving at all. Vertigo hit her solidly in the gut, the world zoning in and out of focus, bile burning the back of her throat as she kept calling his name over and over again. "Cinead! Cinead! Please, Cinead!"

A man, barrel chested and larger than most flopped onto her, crashing as Lachina nearly went flying, an arrow piercing his neck as he gargled and clawed at her. Blood, moist and hot splattered onto her face, neck and chest as the wound gushed, as he choked and spat his own blood at her. His face... She would never forget his face, chiselled, silent scream, sockets bulging, cheeks wobbling. She could taste his blood on her own tongue, copper and bitter, poison as she managed to just barely backtrack enough for him to careen to the floor and not on top of her.

As they were backed into the spot of trees by the invading Danes, surrounded, the bodies began to become tightly packed, pushing Lachina even further away from Cinead. Her breath was heavy now, rapid and causing puffs of smoke in the cold air. There was hardly any room to draw weapons any longer, not without fear of stabbing a fellow Scot, so when they began dropping from flying arrows and slashes of sword and axe, Lachina did her best to back away, but had nowhere to back away to.

That's when the man to her left, a hefty man who was fatter than muscular, groaned, axe protruding grotesquely from his chest cavity, fell onto her, knocking her down onto the ground, head banging harshly against a rock, the world spinning faster now. Another fell on top of him, and another on that one until Lachina felt like she was being buried alive, broken and prone on the chilly, wet floor, mind fuzzy, dirt... Or blood obscuring her vision as her chest was crushed. Cinead was gone, likely dead and she couldn't breath, couldn't move.

She didn't know whether it was the bang to her head, the piling bodies or whether the battle was waning but everything began to quieten, her heartbeat drumming in her chest the only sound she could fully focus on. She was going to die... She was going to die under a mass of bodies, alone, wet, aching... Cinead, she had promised to protect him, yet here she was, crushed and stuck under men who had sworn to protect the clans on the coastline, another broken promise. She had failed. The Dane's would slaughter the survivors and the Scots would fall.

 **No.**

No. This wasn't it. This wasn't the end. She still had breath in her lungs, a beating heart, she still held life in her. The Scots may have taken everything from her, but she would not let them nor the Dane's take her life. She refused to die here, under sweat, mud, blood and guts. She was still alive, instead of squandering that by slowly suffocating under the fallen, broken as her masters had tried to make her, once more she would prove the world wrong, prove she was stronger than that, her will alone not so easily shattered. With everything she had, every fibre, every flicker of soul and will, Lachina dug her hands into the sodden mud, shouting in pain and anger as she tried to heave and drag herself out of the graveyard on top of her. "Aaaaaah!"

Finally, years or seconds later, she managed to get her torso out the tangle of bodies, rolling onto her back to kick and push at the body still clinging to her in death. She grunted and strained as the body eventually slipped from her, her chest gasping for much-needed air as her head flopped back to the floor, eyes cast to the darkening sky, breathing. She was breathing... Breathing! Lachina let out a hysteric laugh as she looked to the violet sky, tears stinging her eyes. She was alive. She. Was. Alive.

A gruff laugh and pitiful cry rang out, making Lachina jerkily pull her legs free, craning her neck in the direction the sound had come from, refusing to stand and show the Danes exactly where she was. The Danes had won alright, now they were flittering across the fallen field like vultures, snagging up any survivors by the scruff of their tunics, laughing and teasing as they slit their throats or skewered them on the ends of their dangerous blades. At least they gave them quick deaths, if any consolation at all.

Lachina heard a scuffle as something was dragged, yelling in a foreign tongue as another Dane dragged a flailing body over to the small group she had been watching, one colour catching her eye. Gold. Cinead. He was alive.

No, no, no, no! Cinead was girdled by five Danes, all looking as brutal as the next one, two or three even laughing as one jokingly prodded him in the side with the tip of his sword, laughing ferociously as Cinead clambered away, ending up with him falling to the floor, scurrying away with his hands and feet, not getting far when they kept slipping in the mud, causing the Danes to laugh harder.

With new-found strength, fuelled by rage or sheer will, equal parts likely, Lachina scowled as she saw the display, rolling onto her stomach, keeping her belly low to the ground as she crawled forward like a wolf on the prowl, slithering over dead bodies and ground alike as she inched closer. She couldn't let Cinead die. He was her brother. Her only friend. The only good thing in her life. She'd claw their eyes out with nothing but her fingers if she had to. A glint of silver caught her gaze, her nostrils flaring and a cynical smile stretching her lips wide. If she was going to die this day, she would die standing, protecting the one thing that meant most to her.

Crawling over to the body of the Viking, keeping her gaze on the group tormenting Cinead, Lachina reached over to the belt, sliding out the hatchet hooked there. A dead man had no use for a weapon, and as the men laughed once more at poor Cinead and his frantic efforts to get away, she knew she had a bloody good use for it.

Her fingers bit into the polished wood of the hatchet, her crawling growing faster and faster, ignoring the shocks of pain that shot up her legs or hands from rocks or blades she accidentally crossed mindlessly. One of the Danes had clearly grown tired and fed up of the game, as he pulled his sword free from his hip, advancing on Cinead with long strides. Cinead bred to be a prince and not a warrior, coward slightly, his head hanging low as he prepared for the final blow. The Dane raised his sword high above his head, the setting sun making the metal shine and glow almost angelically and on the exhalation of breath, began to bring it town swiftly.

 _Clang._

The Dane looked startled at the hatchet holding his sword back, his gaze following the weapon to an arm, a body and then to a face. At this point, Lachina was encrusted with grime, blood and mud, the plait of her hair completely undone now, her main of fiery curls left to flutter in the wind. With him distracted, Lachina took a shot and used the crook of the hatchet, spun the handle in her hand, hooked the blade of the sword and knocked it out of his grasp, sending it to the floor. They locked eyes and then, then the damned man smiled at her, all teeth and gums.

He staggered back a few steps, giving Lachina just enough room to slip between him and a kneeling Cinead, her grip tightening around the hatchet, shoulders drawn back, stance ready, proud. His hand snapped down to his hatchet, drawing it free and sending it zooming towards her, leaving his side exposed. Lachina ducked just in time and as she stood, she sent her own hatchet sailing to his side in an upwards motion, watching as it struck home, slicing the fucker across his side, through his chest and ending in his shoulder, deep, but not deep enough to send the man down and keep him there. She heard him huff in pain, another stumble backward, an animalistic snarl as he glanced down to his bleeding torso. "Lachina!"

She had just enough time to lock her knees and raise her own hatchet high to stop the returning blow from caving in her head, another blow coming straight after another as she was forced to go on the defensive and not offensive, forcing her back step by step with each aching swing and force it took to block it from reaching her. She didn't turn around to her name, she couldn't risk taking her eyes from the Dane, not if she was going to give Cinead enough time to get away. Instead, after another vicious swing to her head that left some of her hair fluttering to the floor from being chopped off, she shouted back to him. "Run! Get out of here!"

She didn't have the time to glance back and check to see if Cinead had done what she had said, but she thought she heard running steps and that gave her all the hope she needed. Another blow came, this one stronger than the others, strong enough to send her falling to the floor, rolling just in time to avoid the hatchet implanting into the ground where her head was seconds prior. With the Dane so close, and with the strength obviously being on his side, Lachina did what she had too. Pushing to her knees, she glanced back at the man with a glower and sent her elbow rushing backwards, nailing the bastard in the throat as he coughed, spittle flying.

She got to her feet, raising her hatchet to swing at the Dane's head when his own came free from the mud, blocking her blow, and with a twist of his weapon, she was left exposed, barely blocking the slice aimed at her chest, hatchets crossed, one foot planting behind her to keep herself balanced. The Dane chuckled as he stood up,bearing down on her, eye to eye, the blade of his hatchet pushing forward, blade carving into the thin linen shirt she wore, scouring her skin. Lachina hissed as pain flared to life in her shoulder, hatchet pushing further and further into the cut, blood blossoming into her shirt. Her strength against his, even with her past of wrangling in studs and stubborn mares, he would win.

Her legs wobbled under the strain of holding her up and against the force that the big Dane was pushing her down with, her shoulder threatening to give way to the weapon, the heart rendering sound of her own hatchet's wood creaking and beginning to splinter. This was it. Any second now and she was sure she was going to die.

But here, surrounded by Danes, in a field of the dead, dusk turning to night, she would die free. She would die protecting her friend. She would die on her own terms through her own choices, and not those choices of her master. In the grand scheme of her life, with the little she had, it was the best her life could offer, to die a good death. However, that being said, this bastard would have to do more to drag her to the afterlife. Here, it was either him or her and she chose him.

Her hatchet was holding back the blow, if she pulled it away, there would be nothing to stop the severing of her shoulder. The Dane chuckled, his Adam's apple bobbing and Lachina saw her chance. She just needed to get close enough. All her life, she had been treated as an animal, sleeping in barns or stables, even chained in the woods once or twice, it was time to show them just how animalistic she was when pushed. This... This was going to hurt like a bitch.

With a war cry of her own, Lachina twisted her body slightly to the right, the blade digging into her shoulder deeper, sinking into the cut and making a wound, shocking the Dane as she continued twisting, twisting closer to him, face near his neck now, the blade skimming the bone of her shoulder joint, pain blistering and searing her entire being, her left arm flopping to her side in excruciating pain, relinquishing the handle of her hatchet and going limp. At this point, she didn't care if he understood her or not. "Ye'r first mistake was thinking I was one of the sheep..."

And then she lunged, teeth sinking into the pulsing vein of his throat, blood, poignant and spicy gushing into her mouth as she clamped down harder, tearing the flesh off as she ripped her head in the opposite direction, bits of flesh and muscle dangling from her mouth before she spat it onto the floor, a squirt of blood splashing her face as the man gargled and let go of his hatchet, the weapon still encased in her own shoulder, fingers fruitlessly trying to stem the flow. He stumbled backwards, no words coming, although, it looked as if he was trying to yell. Then he fell silent, crashing to the floor in a heap. Dead.

Lachina's knees gave out, flopping to the floor, curled over herself, head hanging, breath ragged and smelling of blood, the smell scorching her nostrils. Through it all, the pain, the agonizing pain from her shoulder never faded, only grew. Peeking through her hair to the other Danes, having expected them to kill her while she was down, she choked back a sob. It seemed Cinead had discarded her sacrifice for him like a piece of old wool.

Cinead had not gotten far, not far at all. He was kneeling in front of a man with braided hair, dark blonde, the sides shaven and the telling of a promising beard, dagger pressed to his throat, watching her with wide eyes and gaping mouth. Lachina breathed deeply through her nostrils, groaning as she heaved herself up with one arm, snagging the dead Danes hatchet from the ground, the other arm refusing to do anything but dangle at her side limply. Her legs shook, her feet slipped, but she stood. By god did she stand.

She swore to god, to her dead mother, to anything up there that would listen, even if she had only one usable arm, one small weapon, she would take as many of the bastards down before she died. Cinead would live. He had to. This could not have been all for nothing. She wouldn't let it come to that. She would die standing or not die at all, that was the promise, wasn't it? Who was she to back out from a promise to god?

She silently sent a prayer up to her mother and father, telling her she would see them soon over a good tankard of ale, the honey kind the king kept for himself and the other nobles. It wouldn't be heaven, no, her mother and father were Danes, and after the stunts she had pulled today, she doubted she would be allowed into the shining, golden gates that Saint Peter guarded. But wherever they were, hell or some place other, she would find them there and finally have a family.

No one would ever take her spirit, not in life, not in strife, not in war and especially not in death. Tightening her grip on the handle of her hatchet, Lachina squared up once more, even as her body angrily protested and quaked. She wasn't a Dane, she wasn't a Scot, it didn't matter where she came from or where she lived, she was Lachina, she knew who she was now and she would not die kneeling and broken in mud.

She waited for what felt like a lifetime for one of them to step forward, throw an axe, slit Cinead's throat, anything, when one in the back of the rag-tag group, lanky and lithe, peeped over the one who was holding Cinead hostage, giggles breaking out as he scanned her up and down, eyes locking onto her chest, head tilting to the side, smile disappearing as they stayed there. With one raised finger, the group stilled completely as he strolled forward, closer to her. You didn't need to be a Viking to know this man was the leader.

He was tall, and that was saying something, Lachina was tall too, a lot taller than many back in the broche. He was limber like her, thinner than the oak tree man she had bitten into, but somehow, some way, he was even more imposing. His eyes were dark green, reminding her of an evergreen forest in the dead of the night, encased in coal, little lines dragging down his cheeks in sharp points.

Lachina thought he was staring at the blood from either her bite or weeping shoulder, but hazard her luck by flicking her gaze down and saw what had caught his attention before pinning him with her stare, refusing to look away from him for too long. Her necklace had broken free from her shirt in the fight she had taken part in. Her hand tightened around her hatchet, her breath quickening as the man came closer, now pointing at her necklace. **"Where did you get that?"**

Lachina did not understand a single word that passed his lips, the language foreign, jolting like the sharp, jagged faces of mountains but still somehow beautiful. The man gave that infuriating giggle again, switching to another language, this time one she knew but could not speak or understand, only knowing one word. The Sassanach tongue. _"Where did you get that?"_

Backed up, bleeding heavily, feeling dizzy and in so much pain, Lachina did the only thing she could think of, use the one word she knew, snarling it through twisted lips. _"Mine."_

The man slinked around her, eyes never straying from her amber necklace, his tongue clicking on the roof of his mouth before speaking once more. _"Of course it's yours, it's around your neck is it not? But that doesn't tell me where you got it from..."_

With her draining strength, nothing but dregs, Lachina lifted her hatchet up, aiming it at the man who was slithering closer and closer, too close for comfort. _"Mine!"_

The giggles stopped, the mirth in his eyes died and quicker than a flash of lightening touching earth, he knocked her hatchet clean out of her hand, closed the last foot between them. He snatched her head up between his hands, pinning her so he could look at her face, into her eyes, so close she could feel his breath heat the skin of her face. _"Is that the only word your tongue can say? How about we cut it out and see if you will speak then? Yes?"_

Lachina didn't know what this giant of a man was saying, but by Cinead, who knew the Sassanach tongue, having grown up speaking it, reacted, shouting back in the same weird twists and bends of language, it could not have been very pleasant. The man holding him hostage yanked on his hair, bearing his throat more, but that did nothing to stop his frantic speech. The man never let go of her head, in fact, his grip grew tighter, even as he turned to look at Cinead with his dagger-esque eyes. _"It's hers! She was found with it! A ship rolled in fifteen years ago, one of yours flying a black sword upon a red banner, she was the only survivor on board, a newborn with that clasped in her hand, her mother dead... Ask anybody, they will tell you the same... It's 's... She's one of you!"_

The man turned back around to face her, a new glint taking up home in his eye and when faced with this, its sharpness and the foreboding feeling that accompanied it, Lachina wanted the terrible mirth back. Then he did something Lachina had never even thought was possible. Using the cuff of his leather tunic, he promptly spat on it then he bloody scrubbed at her face, flicking off the mud and blood, re-pinning her head as she tried to yank her face free. With long, nimble fingers, he leaned in closer, nose brushing nose as he prodded the skin of her eyes, pulling the lid open wide as he gazed into them, frowning before bursting into a keel of hearty, high pitched laughter, flicking her on the forehead before fingering one of her tangled red curls, nearly jumping up and down on his heels. **"Mmmmm... It is you... It really is you!"**

There was that language again, harsh yet somehow impossible soft at the same time. Lachina, however, was simply tired, bleeding out and ever so cold. Really, she didn't have time to see the man unlatch his hatchet from his waist, nor when he flipped it to the handle swiftly, she never got to flinch when the wooden pommel struck her temple, knocking her out cold.

* * *

 **Do you guys prefer longer chapters or shorter ones?**

 **Next chapter:** Infection sets in, a boat journey takes place and Lachina finally steps foot upon Kattegat soil.

* * *

 **A.N-** This chapter is a huge 8.5 thousand words, hence my question of if you guys prefer shorter or longer chapters, if shorter, I can always cut them down or split them, if longer than great, I have a tendency to ramble on! To all those who have made it to the end, thank you for taking the time out to read this madness!

I don't really know about this chapter or not, some parts I got too and the just wrote themselves, yet looking back and re-reading, I'm not sure whether I like them or not. So, if some places feel dodgy for you too, I'm sorry but this is what came out and no matter how many times I re-wrote certain parts, they kept playing out the same way. XD I might go back and re-write at a later date.

To everyone who reviewed, you guys are the best and the reason I've kept on writing and thinking about where this can go. You really do inspire me. To everyone who gave a favourite or follow, THANK YOU, and to those who have read this far, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

 **IMPORTANT... ISH:** I don't want to say I'm looking for a beta, so to speak, because I won't be passing along full chapters, however, if you're interested, I am looking for someone I can P.M and throw ideas back and forth with for this story, the odd paragraph or two that don't sit right or I want an opinion on. I have the basics down for this story, the very minimal plot, but I have other ideas plaguing my head and would like an input or someone who can put up with my rambling XD. If you're interested to help out, either drop it in a review or P.M me. Thank you!

I hope you all liked this chapter and the next one should be out either Thursday or Friday. Have a brilliant day, until next time, I'm out!~ _carelessdodger_


	4. Eclipse

**"Hello."** \- Old Norse, bold.

 _"Hello."_ \- Old English, Italicized.

"Hello."- Scottish, normal. (When just Vikings are just present, when Lachina learns Old Norse, then also Old Norse.)

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Chapter IV

 **Eclipse**

 _On The Shores Of Scotland_

 _Lachina's P.O.V_

Beira, the mother of all Scottish gods and goddesses of old, the queen of winter, a giantess with skin the shade of glacial blue, haggard and old with wispy white hair and teeth the shade and husk of rust, was said to have built Scotland herself with her humongous hammer and sheer determination, creating a home for her children and her people of Scotland to live and thrive on. As a child, after hearing the old folk-tale after eavesdropping on some passers-by, hidden from sight by a well placed blackberry bush, fingers stained deep purple from scavenging for any type of food to fill her twisting and starving stomach, Lachina would sometimes find herself staring out at the highlands, trying to picture the giant hag swinging her hammer, bringing to life the highlands and mountains. After some time, she had stopped trying to picture such things, that was the sad thing about growing up, the loss of imagination. Lachina, well, she never really had a chance to be a child in the first place, so really, that was the only memory of her childish imagination she could remember ever picturing so clearly.

However, spacing between sweet nothingness and aching awareness, flashes of dreamscapes splitting with haunting reality, not sure where she was, who was with her, who she was, all Lachina could focus on, while her brain let her focus in those bitter-sweet moments of clarity, was that old and withered giantess. She could feel her wintry breath crisp the skin of her fingertips and toes, she could smell that rust so much, Lachina was sure she would never be able to smell another thing again, the smell seared onto her brain for all of time, and Beira's Hammer? Lachina could feel each and every blow that had formed this cherished land thrumming in her blood, half heart beat and other half undiluted pain that rattled her form with shivers and jolts.

Lachina couldn't tell you how long she kept slipping and dropping in and out of the waking world, she could only tell you that when she did finally wake up, mind fuzzy and slowly chugging, she could hear a lone bird tweet in the far distance, the noise tickling her eardrum. She could see a golden canopy above her,a mirage of greens and yellows blotting and shielding the periwinkle sky that peeked through in some places, a game of peek-a-boo if there ever was one and unfortunately, she was strapped down tightly to a stretcher, furs slung over her body, screening her from the blustering wind that had a slight taste of salt to it's edges. Or, she idly thought, that could be the lingering taste of blood on the tip of her tongue.

Blinking sluggishly, trying to get her eyes to focus, her body jostled from being carried and her shoulder crunched under pain that burned hot and deep. Her cracked lips opened to groan, yet no peep came out, her throat too dry, the pain too prominent to let nothing more than a puff of moist air escape her mouth. If she was a lesser woman than what she was, if she had not lived through what she currently had, if she had not lived and been through the lashing that had skinned her back and thighs and left it a pretty silver stained glass window of scar tissue and harsh, jarring lines, Lachina was sure she would have blanked back out again at the pain drumming in her or simply given in to the sweet oblivion tempting her in dulcet tones. However, she had, and surrounded in an unknown area, Cinead nowhere to be seen, enclosed by Danes with glinting weapons, Lachina refused to bow down and submit to the wave of sleep that tried to crush her into submission.

By the hint of salt in the air, the absence of more song birds singing their hellos or other animals prowling and the steady march of the steadfast Danes, it didn't take two guesses where they were heading, nor how close they were. The sea. Fuck. Lachina's eyes drooped, only for her to stubbornly blink them wide open again. She was never a delusional girl, no, Lachina liked to look at the facts, cold and hard, and plan from there, neither was she stupid. If she, and hopefully Cinead if he was still alive, please let him be alive, were boarded onto one of their ships, there would be no escape, no hope.

Even so, Lachina couldn't move, every breath only angered her shoulder more, her bones quaked and a horrid shivering, despite the numerous furs wrapped around her, rolled through her prone body, her teeth clinking together as she bit down hard to stop them from clattering and alerting the people around her that she was awake. She was cold, so very cold, even with the beads of sweat glistening and trailing down her brow. How could she even dream to escape in the state she was in? Let alone miraculously find Cinead, fight off the small army of roaming Vikings single handedly and somehow get all the way back to the broche, all the while not knowing exactly where she was? Fuck indeed.

She needed Cinead, she needed to see him, she needed to know he was alive and relatively well. Even so, as delirium began to fog her brain, panic clamping her throat, eyes misting pathetically, Lachina tried to shout his name, yet nothing but a pitiful croak that was about as fierce as one would expect from a baby toad brokered through the air. She had done all this for Cinead, for him to be dead now, after everything, after nearly giving up her life for his, she needed him still breathing, to give meaning to what she had done. Sacrifice only equated to sacrifice when something was saved from its act, when it wasn't, it was simply a loss. Lachina had learned that brutal truth with little, star bright Morag.

Lachina, as little as she did have, she did still have her pride and loyalty, and by god almighty, did she hate losing something. She had lost too much already. Given too much, had too much taken, seen too much. Cinead wouldn't be joining that list any time soon, not if she could help it.

Regrettably, her mouse like croak must have caught the attention of the Viking that was strolling at the side of her moving cot. As she caught his gaze, she also noticed the fresh blood dripping from his knuckles, as if it was the only thing vibrant enough to hold her mind and heart still, the hand currently laying idle on the hilt of his sword.

He was tall, likely seemingly so tall because she was currently horizontal and close to the ground, with wheat blond hair in the strangest style she had ever seen, the sides shaven close to his scalp, yet the top and back long enough to braid and twist away from his face, leading to a long, thick braid that danced from side to side of his broad shoulder blades, swaying with the tempo of his steps. She wanted nothing more than to reach up and strangle him with it.

He had the beginnings of a fine beard, neatly trimmed and kept, clashing with the mud and blood stained clothing and skin he wore, but it was his eyes that stood out most, pale blue, like that of a clear, summers sky, shocking. Eyes Lachina had seen before.

He was the man who held the knife to Cinead's throat, yanking his head back, crouched over him, readying the final blow… He had fresh blood on his knuckles. Lachina grimaced slightly, the act turning to a snarl as she tried not to think of whose blood that could possibly be. No. Bloody knuckles did not say for sure Cinead was dead or not and until she saw a corpse or a smile, she would believe him to be alive. Yet, that nagging voice in the back of her head, the one who sounded so hauntingly like King Fergusa, taunted her relentlessly with the sight she could not look away from. **"Easy there little wolf, I'm not looking for a bite."**

She had no idea what he was saying, but by the grin he sent her way, cheeky really if you tried to ignore the split lip and bloody appearance, she thought that if she did know what he had spoken, she would not like it. He had a dagger strapped to his upper thigh by a strip of leather, so close to her, the handle brushed the edge of the stretcher. If only she could move, yet, even the thought of trying to snatch the dagger and planting it in his chest made the pain in her shoulder even brighter than before. Her voice was husky, sounding more like a rattling of bones in a cup than a voice. "Fuck ye and ye kin!"

Lachina waited with baited breath, if he understood her, she knew to keep her mouth shut, if he didn't, well, she could use that to her advantage. On the other side of the coin, even if he couldn't understand her, she couldn't understand him either. Luckily, the smiling, big bastard shrugged his shoulders, grin growing wider as he reached for a water skin perched on his hip, their lack of language not stopping him from speaking in those lilting notes. **"You're sounding a bit gruff there, you might not want to move so much, not with that shoulder. Here, have some water."**

Whatever he said, it was likely an order, something that brought rage bubbling in her gut, the water skin jumping towards her mouth as he offered it, giving it a little waggle and jiggle as she wearily flickered her gaze between it and him. The Dane sighed dramatically as he pulled it away, keeping eye contact in a silent way of telling her to watch as he took a gulp himself before offering it back to her. Lachina could only look at his knuckles, stained crimson and dripping, thinking, tormenting herself with the thought of whose it belonged to. She may not be able to escape, she may not be able to take any down with her, not with her crippled shoulder, but she could get as even as she could in her state. Licking her parched lips with her even dryer tongue, Lachina lifted her head a fraction before dropping it back onto the stretcher, her voice pathetic and broken as she spoke. "I can't reach, come closer."

While the man got the gist of what she wanted, stopped and spoke to the two carrying her, likely telling them to stand still for a moment so he could let her drink, Lachina began wiggling her good arm out of the binds that locked her onto the stretcher, not even daring to try and move her bum one, she couldn't even move her pinky on that arm. When he bent down and re-offered the liquid, Lachina couldn't fully resist temptation, her throat begging for the water, and took a gulp or two, keeping her eyes on the man the Dane at the front had called Ubbe questioningly before nodding.

He smiled at her, that damn smile that made his eyes twinkle and a dimple appear on his left cheek. He was smiling at her with Cinead's blood on his hands. The bubbles of rage in her gut burst and her good arm shot out, water spilling down her front and the fur blankets as it was knocked from Ubbe's grasp, skidding to the floor as her own hand caught the front of his tunic, and in turn, him by surprise. With the very last of her energy, she simultaneously yanked him down from kneeling and threw her head up, head butting the fucker in the face, satisfyingly hearing a crunch and a pained yell as he stumbled back and landed on his arse. **"Fuck!"**

Lachina fell back to the cot with a bang to her own head, the world swimming around her as she shouted at the blond man, her mind still on the blood crusting on his knuckles, the thought of Cinead dead and rotting underneath some tree with his throat slit flashing on the back of her eyelids. "That was for Cinead ye bastard!"

Sadly, even with the small, minuscule in the grand scheme of things, win, the world around her pitched to black and bright life at intervals. During her action, her shoulder had jostled, a loud pop ringing out from the bone as she dropped back down, and something hot, sticky and wet seeping over her chest and side. The pain was immeasurable, immense and all consuming, giving her no time to notice she could now clench the hand of her hurt arm, nor move her elbow as the limb curled up at the pain battering it like a wilted leaf, where before she could not move it no matter how much she willed it to twitch. As she was pulled into the abyss that was unconsciousness, the pain too much for her mind to take, she had the odd thought she heard Ubbe laughing through his own pain, others joining in with the merry sound, the oddest notion? She could have sworn she heard her own laughter echoing out too.

* * *

 _Cinead P.O.V_

At one point in every poor souls life, be it due to premature death, a strike from illness, age snatching the weak and frail, your parents, at one point or another, would have picked you up with soft, safe and warm arms and eventually put you back down, only to never pick you back up again. It was a sad truth, but a truth to be sure. Every last goodnight, sweet kiss, embrace, cheek stroke, smile, could be just that, the very last. Life was an abrupt course of surprises and a spectrum of emotions ranging from euphoric to the deepest and blackest depression. Of course, death as life's polar opposite, was nearly identically, ranging from peaceful deaths surrounded by your loved ones or all out torture. It was no lie when the elders and wiser men told you every second counted. Cinead, however unfortunate as it was, had the wretched privilege of remembering the last time his parent's, his father to be specific, picked him up and inevitable put him back down.

He was nothing but a spring lamb himself at the time, barely past his fourth year of birth, when it happened. He remembered Domnall, eight summers old, playing with his fathers carvings that passed as toys in their young eyes, galloping the crudely carved horse after what looked to be a wooden king, sitting at their fathers writing desk. Cinead had been at the hearth, playing on the rug, warming by the fires with his own carven treasures clasped in chubby hands when his father swept him up, wrinkle free, no grey hairs in sight. Cinead remembered the beaming smile his father had lit up the room with, aimed at him, all for him as he swung Cinead around, his giggles sounding like popping bubbles before his father brought him closer to his chest, his thick arms cradling him, nestling him into broad chest, warming him deep in his soul, giving him that closure and safety that only a parents embrace could.

Then a quick procession of knocks had rang out from the doors, the sound of the heavy wood being swung open had made little Cinead scurry further into his fathers robes, somehow knowing something deeply wrong was hanging thick in the air. Before his father could even shout out a invitation to enter, a scruffy lad had skidded into the room, huffing for breath, face grim and shallow, gaunt, almost skeletal know when he looked back.

He remembered his fathers arms tightening around him, remembered the scuffle of his brothers boots as he jumped away from his fathers desk, dashing to their father to press himself into the man's legs, clinging to his robes very much like Cinead had done. At the time, Cinead couldn't understand what had caused this reaction in him and his brother, nothing was scary about the teen that had burst into their chambers, the lad simply grubby and slim like many he had seen roaming at the castle. Now, however, he understood what was wrong. The air. It had been thick, poisonous, ominous, so heavy even he, at four, could pick up the essence of doom that lingered and fostered in the air, growing like fungus, embedding in his skin, lungs and memory.

Even so, remembering all this, even now, for the life of him he could not remember a single word that was spoken. No sound, silence so barren and bereft suffocating him. He remembered seeing the lads lips move in a flurry of jumbled words, peeking at the teen through the folds of his father's robes he was hiding behind, remembered his own fathers chest billowing and imploding as he let loose his own torrent of language.

Even so, not one word could he bring to mind. Nevertheless, in poignant vividness, Cinead could recall his brother running from the room, hands scrubbing at tear stricken face, he recalled his fathers stillness before his arms loosened from Cinead before he finally dropped him onto the rug covered floor mindlessly, the loss of safety, warmth, compassion as his father tittered and drunkenly walked to the hearth, even when Cinead knew his father had not touched a drop of wine that night, sagging against the stonework with one hand, his fathers hunched back facing him as the man stared aimlessly into the flickering flames, his shoulders shaking.

Only now, with age, did Cinead know, even without sound, his father had been sobbing. It was the first and last time Cinead had ever seen a tear in his fathers eye. That was the day he was put down for good, never to be picked up again. The day news of his mothers death had shattered his happy home and family. A raid by Danes he would later learn, being the cause of this aggressiveness, while she had been visiting family in Northumbria.

His father had died that day too, the man the people of his kingdom had long forgotten, the father that he couldn't fully remembered, only knew was better, more whole than the shell he had become. For all King Fergusa's misgivings, for all his anger he took out on the populace of the Pictish kingdom in bottomless conquests and savagery against enemies and his own people alike, uncountable wrong-doings, his father had not always been a monster, contrary to popular belief. His father had died that day and in its place stood something… Else. Something wrong. That night, in that dimly lit room of laughs and games, his father's back to him, more common occurrence now than it was back than, Cinead was sure now that he had witnessed that monsters birth.

As he had been tugged and dragged across a slim lip of pebbled coast, poked and prodded onto a foreign long ship he had heard stories of but had never seen with his own eyes, terrifying things with demons roaring at their heads and sails the colour of blood and gold, other ships rocking along with its brothers, Cinead wanted nothing more than to go back to that day. All he wanted to do was burrow deeper into his fathers arms, feel that safety and warmth once more, just once.

The Danes, despite the battle that had taken place, had not diminished in numbers, in fact, somehow, Cinead felt like they had multiplied, swallowing him, enclosing him, swarming him like angry bee's awoken from slumber. He stood with a gaggle of other prisoners, all as forlorn and twitchy as he, being shoved and pushed onto a boat, his foot catching on the ledge, a sickening laugh ringing bright and clear as a church bell as he nearly fell to his knees, having to scuttle and jog to keep up with the group and the one who held his rope.

Cinead's nerves were frayed, his mind an endless swirl of jumbled thoughts and half-baked plans, wanderings, to say the least. Even at fifteen, when many boys his age and perhaps younger, had soaked their blade in first blood, this was the first time Cinead had ever seen battle with his own eyes and not be told of the happenings by either his teachers or over zealous brother. Mayhap that was the problem, all Cinead could fall back on was the tales of glory, victory and bravery. That, well, those tales he simply couldn't link to what he had witnessed, blood, death, screaming and loss, his own blade still irrefutably clean. For the first time for his father to lose a battle, he just had to be amongst the throng of it. His luck was almost as piss-poor as these other poor lads being herded upon the ship.

A calloused hand on his shoulder roughly pushed him down to his knees, and then even further, until he was squatted on the floor, back pushed against the side of the boat, his hands yanked from his chest, the thick and coarse rope chaffing his wrist's clean of their skin as the uncouth brute tied them to the wood work, chaining him, a snarky smile thrown his way as the Dane left him to wallow in his own filth and melancholy thoughts for three days of sailing, skin crusting wind and frantic beating heart. All the while, even when he pondered on happier days or wandered what type of death would befall him at these barbarians hands, he always went back to one fundamental question.

 _Where was Lachina?_

The last he had seen of his dear friend, his only authentic friend if he was being truthful, was when that willowy madman had clonked her on the side of the head with the butt of his axe, sweeping her up and away before she could fall to the ground, shouting out to his brethren in that demonic language that set Cinead's teeth to bite and gnaw on the inside of his cheek, carrying her away and out of sight. This was all before the one holding a dagger to his neck hauled him up by his hair and dragged him to a little coop of dithering men, tying him to the others like a flock of sheep heading to slaughter. Was she dead? No. Cinead didn't think so.

Something had changed in those last moments before Lachina was taken away, something he remembered from that day where his father had lost his wife, yet another change in the air that prickled and picked at his skin like an old scab. For three days and four nights upon the choppy waves,surrounded by enemies that baited and laughed at him, trying to keep himself from being sick or pissing himself like other captives had failed to accomplish, this thought had troubled him. On the fourth day, dawn to be exact, Cinead had gotten his answer, only now, some small, shrivelled part of him wished he had not.

Cinead was huddling deep within himself, his torn and dirty clothing the only thing offering any form of warmth against the sea winds that whipped and lashed at his blistering red skin. His hair, normally combed and oiled neatly into glossy curls was limp and greasy, the roots stuck to his scalp with grime, hanging over his eyes, protecting him from the gazes of the demons that roamed on deck. His head had long since lost its proud upturn, now hanging between his propped up knees, hoping if he seemed as small as possible, un-challenging, the heathens would leave him alone. How far the tall had fallen. His father, with his cruel eyes and imperial twist would sneer and scorn him if he could see Cinead now. This tactic had proved to be in vain when he heard the distinct noise of heavy boots walking towards him, spotting the toes of said feet through the curtain of his hair, flinching when he realized they had stopped directly in front of him.

He tried to swallow but his throat felt as hot and dry as the sun baked earth on a summers day, only having had a sip of water before another Dane had thought it was hilarious to knock the cup from his grasp, his chained hands not letting him scramble far enough to try and reclaim the falling cup. He had nearly cried when he watched the water seep into the wood of the deck instead of down his throat to parch the burning. He was too weak, trembling in the cold to put up a fight when the Dane bent down and untied his wrists from the boat, using the rope to manhandle him into a stand, his knee's knocking together when they threatened to give and cave underneath his weight, cramping from keeping the same huddled pose for too long. Then he saw him.

 _The madman with blackened lids and hell-fire for eyes._

The man gave him a grin, as trustworthy as a sharks who had smelled blood, before he began tugging and leading him to the back of the boat, towards a little hut they had made with rolls of canvas and wool stretched and pulled taunt over the sides of the ship, barricading the inside away from the outside. Unfortunately, on the short trip it took to make it from one end of the boat to another, Cinead had tripped and fallen, skimming his knee's against the deck, a harsh blow to his pride when more laughter rang out, causing the madman to heave down and yank him up by the back of his shirt, practically dragging him to the entrance of the tent, using his free arm to flip the flap open and then unceremoniously shove Cinead into its dimly lit depths.

The tent was small, warm and lit by a few candles stuck the the top of a barrel, dangerously flickering close to the wool that hung around them. A female Dane was bent over a sprawled form, rags covered in blood piled at her feet, another in her hand, wiping at the person's back. That is when Cinead saw it, or rather, registered two things. Red hair and patchwork scars. Lachina. She was out cold, rolled onto her front, her back bare and open for the world to see, top missing, hidden in the pile of bloodstained rags, hair loose and sweeping across the floor, legs covered by a woollen blanket, likely naked like the rest of her.

Cinead's first reaction was to dash for her, see for himself if this was her empty, cold body or if her heart still drummed and life still reigned. His second reaction, however, came quick and harsh, forcing him to blush and turn his head away when he finally registered Lachina was naked, alone and in a room with an unknown man and woman. The madman was having none of it. A hand, fingers long and despotic, slithered up to the base of his neck, adhering there as the madman thrust him forward, a well aimed kick to the back of his leg sending Cinead flailing to the floor beside Lachina, the man pressing his face as close to Lachina's back without having Cinead's face touch the skin there.

Up close, the scars were wide and thick, silver, lumps and welts across delicate skin that would forever be tarnished. Suddenly, Cinead found he could swallow, and he did so, repeatedly, seemingly unable to stop when faced with the evidence of what his father had caused, bile stinging the back of his tongue. He ha never seen the scars before. The madman bent down, face close to Cinead's but gaze never leaving Lachina's back, voice hoarse but cogent. _"What is this?"_

It took Cinead a few torturous seconds to catch onto the words that fluttered his hair, to realize the madman was speaking the Sassanach tongue, and when he tried to reply, it took him two attempts as he began speaking Scottish in his rush to quell the heathen's anger, hopefully lessoning the strangle hold he had the the back of Cinead's neck. However, in the midst of this, Cinead had tried to close his eyes, tried to block out the imagery of the scars, his own failing staring back at him, deeply ashamed of his own part he played in the acquiring of such ugly, abrasive scars. A jolt snapped his crunched eyes open as the madman shook his neck, pressing his face closer to the scars. Cinead's answer came in one fluid rush, one word nearly indistinguishable from another. _"Scars! They're scars!"_

Cinead's normally quick wits had obviously fled him along with the last of his sanity when faced with the brutal glare of the madman. The fingers tightened, blunt nails digging in, crescent moon bruises sure to appear later… If there was a later for him. Thankfully, the woman broke the tension like a shattered mirror with a scoff and wet plop of the rag being dropped into a water filled wooden bowl. The madman's eyes locked onto hers, one eyebrow raising high on his forehead, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as the plain faced, muscular woman nodded her head in Lachina's direction, speaking in that wretched language of theirs. Heathens, the lot of them. They all deserved a mass burning. **"Floki, the wound needs stitching and boiling, it's beginning to smell rancid, the blood is growing darker as we speak. We have no time to play games with little golden boys if you want this girl to ever open her eyes again."**

The sickness swung hard, dizzying the world around him and for once, Cinead was not afraid to admit how very, very scared he was when the madman gave a nod to the woman, adjusted his grip, wrapping his knuckles in the back of Cinead's tunic and heaved him up by his collar, dragging him out of the tent, passed other men and a few woman, a few stumbling steps over oars and towards the very front of the ship, where the carven demon still roared to the sky.

The madman's grip let go and Cinead was sure he would careen over, but before he could fall the man wrapped an arm around his shoulder, dragging him close towards him, almost like a brotherly act of affection. Cinead didn't fall for it for a second. He felt like he had his bare hand in the gaping maw of a wolf that was moments away from biting down and tearing his limb off. He trembled harder. The smell of smoke, blood and salt searing his senses, the madman's gaze making the skin of his face itch. _"Now, now, now little princeling, don't be so skittish. I haven't hurt you… yet. Tell me about the scars."_

Cinead's breathing became labored, constricting, as if he was drowning. He wanted to know how this brute knew he was a prince, yet, he wasn't stupid enough to question it. The underlying threat thrown his way was anything but subtle and now that he knew Lachina was alive, they still had hope of escaping. The sad thing was he knew, just knew, without her he had no hope of ever getting back home. So, he would play their games, jump when they said jump, kneel when they wanted to, all until he and Lachina could get out of this very real hell, hopefully with this madman dead at their feet when the time came. He just needed to keep faith. Licking his lips, although it did nothing to wet the cracks present, Cinead tried his best to convey what had transpired all those years ago, back when Lachina was still new to the broche. _"Lachina-"_

The madman cut him off with a bark and a shake to his shoulder. _"Ingrid."_

Cinead didn't know whether the madman was speaking in his native language now or not, having never heard that word before. Unfortunately, he guessed wrong as he tried to continue, anything to get away from this lithe mass of overbearing insanity. _"Lachina-"_

The arm wrapped around his shoulder shot out, re-grabbing the back of his neck as the fingers enfolded around this throat, nearly linking at the front, squeezing his wind pipe with excruciating force. The madman's face was back, breath stinging his cheek, always to the side of his peripheral vision, like a phantom, there but never to look upon fully. This man was a demon, a true hell spawn demon that had somehow managed to escape its rightful prison, Cinead was sure of it as he fought for breath. _"Her. Name. Is. Ingrid. Don't make me repeat myself again little princeling, you won't like to play my gods games."_

Cinead nodded rapidly, coughing, hacking, gulping in air to try and breath, wheezing out words in a cascade of chaos. _"Ingrid!…When,she, child, new, Morag…"_

Cinead took a shaky breath, trying to calm his nerves as the madman finally let go of his neck, his hand disarmingly going back to his shoulder to pat and then lay still, like a grass snake waiting for its next poor mouse to stumble past its waiting point. Cinead knew not to take anything for granted, not here, not anymore. He tried again, this time pretending he was talking to Lachina in the stables or maybe the ramparts, sharing laughs and jokes over stolen food from the kitchen instead of in the middle of the ocean, captured and starved, faced with this intimidating man and Lachina nearly dead feet behind him.

Focus. He had to keep focused, for him and Lachina. Swallowing on the tail end of a wet sounding cough, Cinead finally regained his bearings and carried on, voice guttural. _"Ingrid had come to our castle after my father took the clan's land that owned her. She had only been there a short while, a year or two, but we became friends… She was less angry back then… Morag was a little girl, five, who had also come along after another clans fall about a year later. Lach-… Ingrid took her under wing, the little girl refused to be very far from her, like a leech, always latched onto her hand or breeches. The new servant quarters had not been built yet, so they all stayed in the kennels. They were little rooms where no one knew where who slept, everyone just picking a corner to sleep in each day. Then… Then things began to go missing around the broche, gold, food, jewellery… Candlesticks, you name it, it went missing. My father, the king, the lords and ladies, my brother, they grew livid after my brothers betroths necklace disappeared. They went to find the person responsible, only Lachina and me stumbled across them first, trying to sneak back to bed after playing on the ramparts. Morag, she was so young, little, sitting in her kennel with the stolen goods under her bed roll, looking them over because she thought everyone was sleeping. She... She thought if she took enough, she could find away home, to her parents, pay for a horse, she didn't understand they were dead, that there was no way back home, not now. But.."_

The toiling sickness in Cinead's stomach threatened to become vomit as the memories came to mind. His own words caught back up to him, little Morag curled up in her hay, caste iron bars creaking open as he and Lachina stumbled upon the scene of her rolling the necklace around in her hand, watching it glint off the moonlight prettily, enthralled by the gemstones and gold work. At the time, when little Morag had finally spilled out why she had taken what she had, after Lachina had scurried to her and snatched the necklace, eyes feverish as Lachina demanded to know if Morag knew what she had done before hugging the girl tightly, Cinead had thought the little girl to be a simpleton. As if she could go home, it was burnt to the ground and his father would never willingly set a servant free if he could help it. But… But wasn't that what he was doing now? Holding onto some wraith like hope Lachina would get well sooner rather than later and help him fight their way out of this? Out of slavery? God, he only hoped it didn't turn out the same way little Morag's story had. _"But?"_

Cinead jolted by the abrupt interruption of his swirling thoughts, gaze flickering to the madman before snapping forward to stare aimlessly at the horizon. If he told himself the madman wasn't there over and over, he wasn't so close to him he could smell the remnants of battle, he could perhaps believe it one day. It was just words, just a story, if he pretended it was nothing more, than it didn't hurt as much when he told it. _"I and Lach-… Ingrid were young too, too young to get one past my father. She... We thought if we returned all the things, it would all be forgotten about and things would go back to the way they were. As Ingrid was collecting the gold to return from underneath the bedroll, we didn't hear the kings men walking in until it was too late, they were looking for me as my father had found out I wasn't in bed. They spotted Ingrid with her arms full of stolen valuables and thought I was the one who caught her, the kennel rooms changed from person to person so frequently, no one knew whose chamber it really was. I tried to tell them and my father it wasn't her, that it was Morag, but Ingrid cut me off, standing nothing but four foot, dressed in rags, arms pinned to her side by solders in the great hall, everyone come to watch as the little thief was finally brought to justice. I remember how she looked at my father, at everyone in the hall, squared her shoulders and glared so hard I thought the room would set ablaze, I'll never forget her face, the snarl, telling him it was her that had taken all of it before she lent forward and spat on his robes... I think she was aiming for his face."_

Cinead couldn't stop the broken chuckle that rasped through his body. He swore, that day at such a tender age, he had fallen a little bit in love with Lachina there, drowned by clothes and dusty from climbing the ramparts with him, a funny sight she had made, so bold yet so small. The only person he could ever recall standing up tall and proud underneaths his fathers scrutiny. She had not changed that much between the years, yet, after that horrid day, he had never seen that same fire blazing in her eyes... Indignant, boastfully, scorching. Not until she had faced off that Viking with a broken axe. The fingers around his shoulder twitched. _"So, the king gave her those scars, yes?"_

That little slither of happiness Cinead had found was crushed and turned to ash under the mad Dane's question. His face grew blank, tone empty, eyes unfocused and pinned straight ahead. _"Yes and no. Lachina… Ingrid, was tied to the great pole in the court yard with irons, the one we used to dance around when spring came, it's known as the lashing pole now, no more dancing to be had, all because of Ingrid. Her shirt was stripped from her back, They whipped her until there was no skin left unblemished on her back and legs. My father... He... He had gathered the rest of the servants, made them watch, to give them warning of what would happen to them if they took what did not belonged to them. The servants knew it wasn't Ingrid, she had been there for two years and had never done such a thing... I think my father knew too, but he cared not for the person, only the message it would send to the rest."_

Cinead felt guilt rear its ugly head in the pit of her sternum, anger burning bright and hot through him, thinking of his father, how he wished he would never turn out like him. His jaw clenched, enamel nearly cracking under the pressure. However, now that he had started speaking, it seemed he could not quell his tongue as he carried on, words clipped short and hard, chips of ice, forgetting to call Lachina Ingrid, forgetting all about the madman beside him. _"Ms. Mcallen, our kitchen mistress, was holding onto Morag, blocking her ears from the cries of Lachina, but it wasn't enough. I remember seeing the girl flinching every time the whip came down, crying louder with each new drop of blood that stained the snow red. Finally, Lachina passed out but Morag had already had enough. She ran out from Ms. Mcallen, towards my father, shouting and screaming that it was her who had done it, not Lachina. My father... My father never took being lied too well, or for someone to show everyone else he was easily lied to. He..."_

The words came rapid, breathless, tumbling from his lips in a never ending flow. _"He hung the little girl within a foot of Lachina,right where she was chained to face, forcing the guard to wake her up to see the execution. For lying to him, he left her strapped to the pole, forced to stare and watch Morag's corpse hang. No one could do anything, not while my father was around. Three days later, stripped bare and bleeding from the lashing, out in the middle of winter, my father and his court rode out on another conquest, the gates had barely shut before Ms. Mcallen and the other servants freed Lachina, carried her into the kitchen to heal from being half dead already, giving Morag a proper burial when that was all a delirious Lachina could babble about."_

Now the tale was over, Cinead could feel no regret on telling it. No. Instead it gave him strength. Strength in himself, in Lachina, in ever escaping these heathens. The mad Dane could kill him, sure, but that didn't stop the sharp smile he gave the tall man as he slowly turned to face him, eyes finally locking onto his and staying there. _"You see now, don't you? Ingrid, Lachina, it matters not. She will never be one of you. She has a heart, she has goodness, she is goodness. You... You and your kind are nothing but barbarians and savages!"_

The madman grinned, teeth keen, glinting, pointed, wolf like as he leaned in, hot breath fluttering out and brushing Cinead's cheek. Cinead thought he could smell death himself in the heat of the Dane's breath. His voice was mocking to say the least. _"Barbarians and savages you say? Yet, here we are, side by side… However, it was not me who stood by and watched a little girl be hung, watched as her body decayed. It was not me who watched quietly and politely as my so called friend was whipped bloody and chained to a pole, no food, no water, nothing for three days and nights in winter. It was not me who tried to run away as said friend nearly gave their life for mine."_

The madman leaned in closer, nose nearly brushing Cinead's cheek as his heart faltered, missing beats. His tongue felt swollen and heavy like lead, useless to argue back at the man, all righteous anger fleeing him like a gust of wind had blown it away into the sea to be swallowed whole by the waves and never to be seen again. _"Savages and Barbarians the little princeling calls us... Rather that than a cowardly boy playing at being a man."_

The insult cut deeper than Cinead ever thought an insult could. Was he a coward? No. There was nothing he could do against his father. Morag had chosen her path, not him. Lachina had chosen to take the blame, not him and he had tried to argue against his father for her. Lachina had told him to run and he had, that was not wrong of him… Then why did these thoughts taste so much like excuses? Swept up in his own mind, Cinead could only flinch as the madman delved a spindly hand into the front of his torn shirt, plucking out his necklace that only he knew was there… Or believed he was the only one to know it was there. _"Mmmm, let me tell you a little secret princeling. I know you're a prince because I was told. I knew you would be in the battle because I was told, I knew where your camp was because I was told exactly where it was, how many men strong it was and how many weapons the men had."_

Cinead blinked briskly, only able to think a slave had leaked the information to the heathens in some twisted sort of revenge towards his father. How else could this… This… This scum could know anything he had said he did… Or he was lying. Yes, the madman was lying. He had to be. Cinead sucked in a gulp of air through flared nostrils, Liars. The mad Dane played with his necklace as Cinead was frozen to the spot, flicking it between his fingers, watching the gemstones sparkle. The necklace was nothing much, a simple crest of silver dangling off a small chain, blue gemstones forming a moon with a bow and arrow, the symbol of his fathers dynasty, very much like the own his father wore as a broach and his brothers own necklace. He had always loved blue, the colour of summer skies or warm, calm seas he would swim in. It had been a gift from his father on his tenth birth year. A brusque tirade of giggles leaped from the madman's mouth, high-pitched, half bird squawk that dripped with venom, mania and lunacy. _"Prepare little princeling, Kattegat is nothing like your home land and you are no prince here. Be thankful we need you or I would slit you from navel to jaw, just like the deal I made asked of me."_

The madman dropped his necklace and began marching away, shouting out to the rest of the Danes with a bark of **"Kattegat's on the horizon!"** whatever that meant, only to stall after three steps, giggles still shaking his shoulders as he turned to face Cinead, viscous grin and glow present. _"Your brother's necklace is nicer. I always preferred red over blue."_

Cinead stumbled back a step, crashing into the hall and sagging, falling to the floor in a bump as the madman's words hit home. Red. He had said red. Cinead could only blink back tears that stung and bit at his eyes, head once more flopping between his drawn up legs, huddled, alone, cold and broken, the men around him rushing to grab the oars, roaring in great waves of synchronism, a blot of land on the horizon growing bigger and bigger each second. His hand snuck up and clasped his necklace, tightening so hard either the warmth flushing his head was blood or the stray tears that had fallen from his eyelash. The madman had said red. Cinead's brothers, his family, the boy who used to play games with him and helped teach him to read and write, necklace was like his, only rubies in place of the sapphires. For the first time in Cinead's life, he sobbed.

Domnall had sold him out.

* * *

 _Aslaug P.O.V_

The men and women who had left for the raid had been gone nearly a full month now, and with each passing day Aslaug grew infinitely more restless. Pacing, sleepless nights, copious amounts of wine, nothing quelled the words of the seer from her vision, the prophecy circling her thoughts like a vulture ready to land and peck her bones clean of flesh and marrow. _It shall be then, when the air turns white and grey, when the moon eclipses the sun, when the mountain shrinks and waters freeze your ships silent, the lost one shall return home with the knocking of three dead. Fenrir and Jormungandr encased in human flesh, re-united._

The signs came and went, all in their own whimsical unique ways, jumbled and scattered out of place, so that no mortal could hope to decipher them until it was already laid bare for their eyes to feast upon. Then they would click like a latch, recognition and understanding blooming in her mind... Always too late to change or prepare for. The first sign had come a week after the raiders departure. The tremble had started early in the morning, nothing but a shake to the earth that hardly disturbed a plate off a table, but the result was there for all to see, all those who knew what to look for at any rate. It was in the afternoon that news reached her of the landslide that had, thankfully, taken no lives.

However, it was only when she had strolled down to the beach to look out upon the docks, thinking of her sons and praying to Odin, Magni, Njord,Ran, Sif, Tyr… Any god or goddess that would listen to her prayers to bring her sons safely home when a craggy mountain, balanced on the horizon to her left had caught her eye. The landslide… It had come from that mountain and so, with its proud rock face now crumbled and strewn down the land, trees and woods swept out of the way in tidal destruction, the mountain was smaller than what it had been before… _When the mountain shrinks_ … Aslaug had rushed home after that, prayers long forgotten, meeting Helga's inquisitive eyes over the feasting table that night, both nodding to one another in understanding. So it began.

They seemed to come faster after that, snaps of threads being cut free to dangle and dance in the wind. An unusual, but not entirely uncommon, cold blast from the north had iced the waters of Kattegat's docks that spring. Kattegat, itself, had nothing to worry about, their ships were already out and raiding, but when neighbouring traders tried to visit to sell in Kattegat's now flourishing markets, a normally hectic place this time of year, they found they could not and so the dock and market place was left to its eerie silence for the two weeks it took for the ice to melt and ships to safely tie anchor… _Waters freeze your ships silent…_

Two days after that, a small hunting party, three teen boys on the cusp of manhood, had come back in bloody pieces and shards of bone, a dead wolf with a flurry of arrows embedded in its fur, slung over the shoulders of the man that had tracked them down and all Aslaug could think of was those damned eyes she had seen in her vision, the ones that belonged to Fenrir but were housed in a young woman's skull. When the respective families had been presented with the bodies, Aslaug, playing her part as queen, giving her own condolences on their loss, she had been distracted by a raven perched on the narrow branch of a nearby tree, pecking at the wood incessantly. The sound seemed too loud, booming in her head, shaking her heart to a stand still. **Knock. Knock. Knock…** _With the knocking of three dead._

The day the raiding men and women returned home to Kattegat saw Aslaug greeting the day with weary eyes and tired limbs, yet another look passing between her and Helga. She didn't know when this girl would appear, how she would appear, what state she would be in, how Helga would handle it, but it would be soon. Very soon Aslaug thought as she stepped out into the brisk morning, seeing the dense fog that had settled over Kattegat like a blanket, nearly suffocating the air with its heavy, oppressive presence… _It shall be then, when the air turns white and grey…_

The ships docked that night, bloody men and women swarming the beach with caskets of valuables, some pulling along thin and grim survivors from a foreign land. Aslaug was in her personal chambers, sitting at a table playing a game with her son Ivar, hearth crackling pleasantly in the background, or more accurately, losing repeatedly to her son, when she heard the vivacious roars of welcome and banter filter through from the great hall. She had barely made it to the door when it had swung open, her son Ubbe grinning from the entry way, Hvitserk smiling from over his shoulder, an unknown shadowy figure perched even further behind him. She had swept to Ubbe, fingers ghosting over his swollen nose, eyebrows drawn tight in the middle. **"Ubbe, what happened? Are you hurt?"**

Hvitserk pushed passed his brother, bumping shoulders, laughing as he went to the table, plucking up a cup and filled it to the brim with ale, splashing some on the table, nodding to a silent, watchful Ivar, goading his brother as he went. **"Idiot got tricked by an injured girl half his size, who might I add, earlier that day had just bitten a man's throat out with her own teeth, cracked him in the face with a head-butt. You should have seen it mother, he landed right on his arse in a pile of horse shit as the girl laughed at him-"**

Aslaug sliced a glare to her son. **"Hvitserk, language."**

However, it seemed Ubbe was in high spirits as he too joined in with the laughter, giving Aslaug a sloppy hug before strolling his way to the ale to pour himself a drink too, dropping a rope she had not known he was holding, jostling Ivar's head good-naturedly, earning himself a glare for his efforts. That is when she saw the shadowy figure step into the light. He was young, around Ivar's age and caked in mud, glaring at the floor by his boots, but that was not what had stolen her breath. No, the shining necklace around his neck was what caught her off guard, the shiny, blue moon sucking all train of thought from her mind. **"Ubbe… Who is this?"**

She didn't turn around to face her son, too lost in staring at the necklace, but she heard the shuffle of his shirt as he shrugged, the gulp of ale slipping down throat, the slip of skin against skin as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, tone light and placating as he spoke. **"Some little prince I think, at least by that trinket around his neck. Floki said to keep him. We can't understand a single word the other slaves say, only this one speaks Anglo-Saxon. Floki says we need him to translate. They come from some place called Skotland… I think."**

 _When the moon eclipses the sun…_ But she had it wrong. Not sun… Son. A son with hair as golden as sunbeams with a pendant of the moon, shielding him, protecting him… Eclipsing him. Aslaug's mouth began to open only to hear a loud scuffle through the door, behind the boy as he stepped aside, both his and her eyes straying to the bundle carried in Floki's arms when he stepped out of the shadows, and Aslaug caught her first glimpse of what she knew was coming.

The girl was swathed in furs, younger than what she had seen in her dreams, a year or too younger than Ivar from the little she could see of her, curls loose and wild around her head, scarlet. Her skin was pale, translucent, dark under her eyes, sweat glistening on her brow, brows pinched together in pain, eyes closed in slumber, but still she knew this was the one she had been expecting. Aslaug didn't break a stride as she stood tall, mask strapped on tight. **"Boys, leave. Ubbe, fetch Helga, a needle, boiled water and a heated blade. Lay her on the bed Floki."**

Floki was the only one to move with quick strides, bypassing her sons without a single glance their way, too focused on getting to the bed and her sons, well they were too focused on watching Floki carry the half hidden girl to said bed. Only at her billowing shout did they jump into action. **"Boys, go!"**

 _The lost one shall return home._

* * *

 **Chapter V Sneak Peak:**

Lachina was too weak, too tired, every breath rattling her lungs, wheezing, to sit up at the creak of the door and the rhythmic, slow thud, thud, thud that echoed throughout the dim room. It was the dead of the night and the strange auburn haired lady had long since left her alone to sleep, surely like whoever was entering the room should be. Flicking her gaze to the direction of the door, no shadow or face loomed there, just an open doorway. Still, the thud, thud, thud continued, louder now. So loud Lachina did not know whether it was her own heart she was hearing instead, or the steps of death himself.

Then, under the caste of pale silver light that filtered through the open window, the moon high in the sky, a hand slithered onto the fur blanket of her bed, just by her ribcage. The hand was followed by a crop of hair, short, inky black, shaven down the sides. The came the brows, heavy, harsh, regal in a way, then came the eyes. Blue eyes that Lachina was sure even the skies, sea and harshest winter envied whole heartedly. "If ye here to kill me, just make it fucking quick, before my shoulder does me in."

 **P.S Do not fear, all of next chapter is in Lachina/Ingrid's point of view!**

* * *

 **If you can, please drop a review, they make me smile and get my muse whispering in my ear :)**

A.N- Sorry for the late update, but Christmas caught up to me and I found writing time cut down quite a lot and I wanted to get Lachina to Kattegat in this chapter so we can really get into the story (It took longer than I thought it would). Having said that, I hope you all had a fantastic holiday, and if you don't celebrate Christmas, then had a great day any how.

I want to give a huge, huge, huge **THANK YOU** to everyone who reviewed, this chapter is for you guys! Honestly, you are the ones that have given this madness time to grow a little and I really do hope you enjoyed the new chapter. Thank you to everyone who followed and favourite'd too!

Until next time (Wednesday, Thursday next week), I'm out!~ carelessdodger


	5. Silence and Names

**CHAPTER V**  
 _~A Game of Silence and Names~_

* * *

 _~Kattegat~_

The world came to Lachina in shards of glass, fragmented, poignant in some places, obscure like a wisp of smoke caught in a hurricane in others. Ultimately leading to a mash of sensory overload or phantom skims. The soft, dulcet furs stroking and soothing her back, the absolute coldness seeping like glacial waters from her shoulder across her upper chest, more feathering furs draped over her torso, pinned beneath her armpits, leaving her shoulders bare, the crackling of an open fire and most startlingly, the face of a man peering down at her from upon high were the first of many to jump on to her sudden state of conciousness.

As she jolted, the agony in her shoulder made its presence known, searing and charring her entire being. For a split moment, she was that lost little girl again, laying on Mrs. Mcallen kitchen table, strips of cloth bathed in boiled honey and cheap wine, the best they could afford to waste on a lowly slave, sprinkled with rosemary and heather being draped over her torn up back. The pale, frosted blue lifeless face of young Morag haunting her every time she closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the pain, both physical and emotional, words she had no control over babbling from her mouth like a little bubbling brook. Words that still to this day she could not remember fully, neither did she want to.

Then the hands came, pinning her down, encasing her like a cage, surrounding her, trapping her, snapping her from those horrid memories her mind like to frequent often, against her valiant efforts to forget that time of her life. She didn't know whether to be thankful for the disturbance of her involuntary trip down memory lane or worried about being pinned down.

Her body and mind it seemed, by the pounding of her heart, violent churn of her gut and the little pathetic yelp that freed itself from her mouth, had settled on undiluted panic. The man above her pinned her down harder, bending over her to use one of his legs braced over hers, stopping her kicking while his hands pinned her stomach and shoulder, thankfully the one currently not injured, his face finally being brought into the dim light of the room.

She tried to fight him off, but honestly? With the strength she currently wielded, she would be surprised if she could fight off a fly and for all of her worth, the man above her was no small man indeed. She couldn't tell much, not in the dim lighting, likely coming from that fire she could still hear crackling in the distance, but he felt as immovable as a mountain, as tall as any oak tree she had seen and his eyes… His eyes she could see and she wished she could not. She wanted him to fade back into the shadows, to melt away. A faceless man would be better than those eyes.

They were green like hers, but dark, a woodland caught in the cusp of twilight, tantalizingly haunted, surrounded in coal black, points dragged down sharp cheekbones. He was the man who had knocked her out on the battlefield. She would never forget those eyes, even when age, if she lived long enough, began to eat and gnaw upon her memories.

He barked out in that language of theirs, a keen, high-pitched yap more than a gruff howl. So alien yet somehow familiar, like hearing a long lost lullaby your mother used to hum to you, words long forgotten or discarded but somewhere, in the back of your mind, you found yourself humming brokenly along, missing a beat here and there. **"Hurry!"**

Lachina's head swerved to the side, her neck cracking in protest, pressing into the furs and soft mattress beneath her as movement from the corner of her eye pulled and yanked at her attention, loose, damp curls fluttering in the fast movement, falling across her face, hiding it from view. There were others in the room, others the dark-eyed-man was talking to.

Two women she had never seen before stood off to the side, hunched and curled over a table, one blond, the other a rustic blond, a red-head of soft orange flames as delicate as a flowers petal, so unlike Lachina's own deep red that was abrasive and coarse to the eye, demanding attention rather than taunting it.

The blond darted over to the fire, hands wrapped in clothe as she pulled off a hot bubbling pot from the hearth wrack and brought it over to the other woman, who subsequently began ripping sprigs and leaves of herbs off little twined bundles and flinging them into the pot with practised flicks of wrist and fingers. Then the flowery red-head plucked something up, dipping it into the pot, holding into the mixture, heating it up, the fire-light glinting off sharp, silver metal and Lachina's escape efforts doubled from underneath the lanky man.

 _A dagger._

Gentle, nimble fingers stroked away the locks of hair that had swept over her face and Lachina found herself jerking back towards the man, eyes wide, feverish, frantic, pupils blown so large they almost swallowed the yellowy-green irises fully. Were they going to slit her throat? Skin her and eat her flesh as they chanted and danced? Sacrifice her to one of their faceless, nameless gods, like the many stories that filtered through old man's tales of the terrible Danes?

Lachina's good arm shook violently as she reached up and grasped at the wrist pinning her good shoulder down, fingers wringing into the flesh of the man's arm, gaze locked upon his haunting eyes. She didn't care if this man could not understand her words. She did not care if they would fall upon deaf ears, all Lachina cared about right then was that they would not be her last and if they were, nothing else would follow. _She. Would. Not. Die. Here._ "I swear to ye, to whatever gods ye hold, to ye kin and brethren, before ye snuff out my life, ye won't hear a single word, beg or scream pass my lips… Ye'll never take my pride."

Despite the lack of understanding of language, mayhaps he caught the gruff tone of her voice, the sharp edge to her tangy words, or the glimmer in her eye, he smiled at her. He bloody smiled at her, as if proud by the threat she had thrown his way in what could be her last moments upon this earth. Lachina's fingers tightened further, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of the underside of his wrist. A few scratches was the least she could give her would-be killers.

A creak rang out in the room, once again distracting Lachina from what was happening, her mind already fogged by fever and the pulsing pain in her shoulder, but what she found staring at her from the corner of the room, by a large door currently shut, froze her still, quietened her heart and stalled her brain. Cinead, with his head bowed, hair greasy and limp, clothes in tatters, barefoot, peaked at her through the curtain of his hair.

Lachina tried to jerk up, to dash towards Cinead, even if he was nothing but a ghost, but the hands and legs pinning her down stopped her from getting far, as well as the pain radiating from her shoulder, but by god did she try. He was alive. Cinead was alive… She had truly thought he had been killed, murdered by that blond norseman, the one she had head-butted back on the beach and yet, here he was, worse for wear but still breathing. "Cinead! Ye're alive… Cinead, don't just fucking stand there! Help me! Run! Do something! Cinead? Cinead!"

Cinead's head bowed lower, his hair now hiding his eyes as he seemingly nestled within himself like a dead spider, huddled in cobwebs in the corner, beaten and dead. Why was he just standing there, watching? Why wasn't he helping her? Why wasn't he trying to escape? Why was he doing nothing at all? Back on that battlefield she had been ready to give her life for his, and by the looks of her shoulder and the dagger they were about to use on her for some nefarious reason, she had ultimately given her life for him. So why was he not at least offering her the decency of telling her why that sacrifice was going to bloody waste? Why was he not at least looking her in the eye as she died? "Cinead? Cinead, don't you dare! Look at me! Cinead run! Please… just run! Look at me!"

If he ran, it meant her life was given for something, as minimal as it was. If he didn't, that meant it was all for naught and even worse, Cinead was not the person she had always believed him to be. The auburn woman crept closer, dagger held in hand and Lachina new her time was numbered, close to the very end. It felt like death himself had wrapped a meaty fist around her thin neck and was strangling the life from her when she was greeted with the sight of that dagger creeping closer and closer.

Yet, Cinead only curled in further, barricading himself within his own body, now turning to face the wall and not her, like a scorned child, not a peep uttered from his cracked lips. Her temper snapped. "Ye bloody cowered! Ye hear me Cinead? Ye're a bloody cowered! Men died for ye! I fought for ye and this is what ye repay that with? Silence and obedience? Do ye even have a scratch on ye or did the Danes just look at ye and ye pissed ye-self? I thought ye was a Scot but ye nothing but a craven coward!"

Lachina may have been a slave, an indentured servant in polite terms, but the Scots had never fully broken her. She still had fire, she still had her own will, she never fully bowed or cowed to them. She had spent years... Her life in their servitude and she still had that will that was all hers. How long had they been here? Two, three weeks tops? And already Cinead was acting like a well broken stallion.

In the beginning, she had stayed at the Pictish broche because she had nowhere else to go, no other life to live, but by the end she had stayed for Cinead. When the thoughts of escape and living out the rest of her life like a hermit in some backwards clan woods plagued her mind in the dead of the night, the thoughts of having her own little stable with pretty speckled mares and chestnut stallions, perhaps a gelding or two, she had dashed those thoughts on stone and bloody stayed because he was her friend and he had said he needed her, because she would miss him if she was to leave like she had wanted to.

Cinead was her brother and to Lachina, you never left family behind and if Cinead couldn't come with her in her great escape she had been sure she could have pulled off, well, she would just have to stay. The betrayal hurt even more as the dark-eyed-man shouted something at Cinead in a strict tone. _"Leave, now."_

Whatever he had said worked as Cinead gave a jerky nod before scampering out of the room like a dog who had been caned too hard too many times, shutting the door behind him with a resolute bang and click that seal the betrayal with scarlet wax, yet not before Lachina could throw one more 'Coward!' at his retreating back. Her head flopped back to the bed, her teeth biting into her lip savagely, copper tingeing her taste buds as she held back the sob that wanted to break forth. But sadly, she was unable to keep at bay the water misting her eyes. He had turned his back on her. He would not even look at her. He had left.

 _He had left her._

Pinned down, alone, left in the void of solitude and pain, surrounded by Danes, the red-head now perched on the bed next to her like a wraith, dagger ominously hovering over her, Lachina drew back within herself, finding strength she had not known she held inside her. She did not need Cinead. She did not need the tales of the robbed man stricken to the cross, a crown of thorns adorning his head, the mystical man the clan heads of the Pictish kingdom were slowly turning towards for guidance and so called salvation, Irish missionaries whispering lies in their ears. Neither did she need Beira, or the old gods with their own sacrifices, ruthlessness, anger and blood coated hands many Scots still proudly prayed to and honoured.

No. Lachina did what she had done so many times before, she turned towards herself. She would always be her own strength, her own sun and moon, her own redemption, her own salvation. From the very beginning, she had only had herself and it seemed it would always be that way in the end too. She had all the strength she would ever need already inside her, to be who she was to be. Her chest began to heave with heavy breaths, teeth clenched so hard she was sure she would chip a tooth as the blond woman skirted around the bed to her, clambering up by her thigh from the bottom, pulling her injured arm taunt, soft delicate hands wrapping around her upper arm, straightening the joint with a tender pull.

Lachina wanted to howl, to scream, to pull and wrench herself away but she would not give these bastards the satisfaction. Her nostrils flared, her jaw grounding together and just as the dagger began its decent, something dangling between the blond woman's breast caught her gaze. Amber, rectangular, dangling from a fraying piece of twine, symbols she had come to know like the back of her hand lovingly chiselled on its glossy face. Before the image could fully compute in her brain, she heard the sound of something sizzling and the smell of burnt pork billowing into her nose.

Then the pain came.

Her body reacted on instinct, careening left and right, wriggling, writhing from the brutal burning of her shoulder. The man bared down upon her heavily, knee now moved to her torso, digging into her stomach to stop her from rolling. Idly, after what felt like an eternity but was nothing more than three heartbeats did she foggily notice she was no longer fighting to get away from the clawing pain, but instead clinging to the man, as if he could anchor her there, stop her from drifting away into the night on the wave of pain that racked her form... As if _he_ could or would _protect_ her. The world around her erupted between startling, unearthly vividness to complete blackness that grew longer each time the word switched back and forth until finally, it swept her under its tranquil embrace unreservedly.

However, not once did she utter a single noise.

* * *

 _~Kattegat~_

 _~Four days later~_

Lachina did not know how long she had been under that black cloud that disguised itself as sleep, but when she did come to a stuttering clatter of consciousness, the room was void of life, the fire was long dead and night was laying lofty and bright in the open sky. Every breath that passed her lips pillowed into a puff of frosty smoke. However, the sweat glistening on her skin, sticky and dense against her raw collarbone and throat, sore muscles and heavy mind told her she had just weathered a rather brutal fever or was currently playing witness to the end of it.

After all, it wasn't the first time she had faced a rather nasty fever, unfortunately, she had gone through one after the Morag incident ending with Mrs. Mcallen leaving her stripped as bare as the day she was born and left under an open window to cool her crisping skin and aching muscles, regrettably, in the middle of a harsh winter. It seemed despite all hostilities, the Danes weren't that much different than the Scots in some aspects.

Groaning heartily as she kicked the fur blankets off her body, Lachina was pleased she was not stark naked this time, instead dressed in a thick linen shirt that acted more like a dress on her form, brushing the tops of her knees. However, the most shocking change was her shoulder, her injured arm was crossed over her body, strips of leather tightly wrapped around her torso, knotted and taunt, pinning the arm in place, leaving no room to try and move the limb but thankfully, keeping her other arm free to move if need called for it.

Suddenly, as if possessed by a certain thought, which she was to some extent, her hand snapped up, patting and grasping around her neck, Lachina sagging in relief only when her fingertips brushed smooth, cool amber. Her necklace, she still had it, the Danes had not taken it from her.

In such circumstances, she knew herself that it was an odd thing that her necklace was her main priority. Nevertheless, her necklace was the one thing she owned, the one thing that was truly and wholly hers, her lone possession in this world. Faced with the possibility of having that too taken away from her, gone like her name, her home, a chance at a family and the piling list of missing things that came with serfdom, she was sure it was the one thing that could and would break her heart if it was to ever be parted from her without her say so or own doing. It was funny in a way, such a small thing, inconsequential, for it to have such a hold of her, but a hold it did have and likely always would.

However, the sudden movement had obviously aggravated her already sensitive body, leading her into a boat of wet coughing that clogged her throat and squeezed her chest like an iron band. Finally, the fit of coughing ended in a sputtering of huffs and puffs for air, leaving Lachina to her own mind, never a good thing in her book. Her mind had never been a pretty or idealist place, she was far too pessimistic and apoplectic for such a thing.

She didn't remember much of what happened. A man with dark woodland eyes. Two woman, shaded and convoluted, nothing but silhouettes really, the auburn haired one kept coming back, touching her forehead, prodding her shoulder. A necklace like her own shining in the darkness. A dagger pressing into her shoulder, indescribable pain and… Cinead. She had seen Cinead and he had walked away without a backward glance. That… That she did remember with clarity, another torment her mind obviously wished to bestow upon her.

Fuck. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know what the Norsemen wanted with her, obviously not death by the lengths that had gone to to heal her if these leather straps and swaddled linen on her shoulder were to be believed. That, however, gave her no comfort.

Death was not the worse thing in the world, Lachina knew horrors worse than death could be thrown upon you and just because the Danes wanted her alive, that didn't tell her what for and it was the what for that had her worried.

She didn't know if she was alone in this shadowed place, or whether more Scots than just her and Cinead had been captured. _She. Knew. Nothing._ Lachina thought that was the worse of it, the not knowing. If she knew, she could plan, she could escape, she could out think the opposing team. But she didn't and that was definitely vomit she could feel churning in her gut like milk in a butter press at this unsavoury revelation.

Lachina was too weak, too tired, her mind trapped in unpleasant scenarios that could play out, every breath rattling her lungs, wheezing, to sit up at the creak of the door and the rhythmic slow thud, thud, thud that echoed throughout the dim room.

It was the dead of the night and the strange auburn haired lady had long since left her alone to sleep, or, at least, Lachina thought she remembered the red-head checking her over when lucidity broke through her fever in sparse moments, surely like whoever was entering the room should be. Flicking her gaze to the direction of the door, no shadow or face loomed there, just an open doorway that slowly swung shut, from a person or the slight breeze in the room was anyone's guess. Still, the thud, thud, thud continued, louder now. So loud Lachina did not know whether it was her own heart she was hearing instead, or the steps of death himself come to collect what had been snatched from his oily grip by the Norsemen.

Then, under the caste of pale silver light that filtered through the open window, the moon high in the sky, a hand slithered onto the fur blanket of her bed, just by her ribcage. The hand was followed by a crop of hair, short, inky black, shaven down the sides. The brows came, heavy, harsh, regal in a way, then came the eyes. Blue eyes that Lachina was sure even the skies, sea and harshest winter envied whole heartedly. A broken chuckle slipped from her lips as she looked towards the newcomer. "If ye here to kill me, just make it fucking quick, before my shoulder does me in."

More of him appeared as he eased himself up, as if he was some long lost obelisk rising from the sea, or a snake slithering from the long grass of the highlands ready to rear its head and bite. He slid onto the edge of the bed she was laying on, his eyes never straying from her. As he heaved up and settled onto the bed, the window in front of him bathed him in soft light, and Lachina got her first, real good look at him.

He couldn't be much older than her, a year at the very push. He was broad shouldered, leading Lachina to think he had one hell of a mean swing if you ever got in his range, and dressed in boiled, starched leathers she had seen many of his Dane brethren wear, the colour washed out and hidden by the moonlight. However, like her arm that was pressed and tied to her side by strips of leather, so was his legs bound together. How odd. He had crawled in here, his legs were bound and he had used his arms to pull himself up as if he couldn't… The truth came to Lachina then.

 _He was crippled._

Against all the odds, all he did was stare. Then he stared. And stared. And stared. No axe, dagger, sword or arrow head appearing to finish the job and end her life, leading to a bout of silence that was hefty, somehow impossibly loud and made her skin itch. If he wasn't here to kill her, and obviously not here to have a lengthy conversation, at least one both of them could understand, what was he doing here? Either way, the silence seemed to be a game, a test somehow, a trial to see who cracked first and all the while, those damned eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Lachina couldn't hold back the snarling twitch of her upper lip.

It wasn't that she disliked all Danes per-say. Nether did she dislike all Scots, Cinead a prime example, it was however a factor of one simple trait Lachina could never shake. She disliked people in general. They lied, cheated, stole, argued, killed, maimed and all the while, gave pitiful excuses for such behaviour.

That was what Lachina hated most. The excuses. Lie, cheat, kill, bloody hell, bash someone's head in with a blunt rock because they looked at you the wrong way, but never say it was for a reason it wasn't, don't ever tell her you did it for your so called god or gods just so you could lay your own head down to sleep at night.

People were foolish, lost in ambition and daydreams, but always expected someone to hand it to them on a silver platter, never thinking they had to work for it. In Lachina's opinion, if you had not worked for it, you did not deserve it. People also unfortunately took effort, effort Lachina found herself lacking in as the years passed by. Cinead had proved those thoughts wrong however, he had showed her people were worth the effort, there were good people out there, people who wouldn't turn their back on you and walk away… Well, she had thought he had. Huh. Perhaps _she_ was the fool.

A tugging on one of her curls snapped her out of her rapidly whirl-pooling thoughts. Her eyes snapped down to the offending lock, only to find the mystery man had begun plaiting a lock of her hair skilfully, fingers deftly interlocking the curls into a pattern she had never seen before. Regrettably, she lost the little contest of silence when she gave a yip, a flustered noise that accompanied the blaze of heady pink to her cheeks and neck, hiding her freckles as she smacked his hand away from her hair rather roughly, snapping at him as she did so, forgetting for a moment he could not understand her. "Don't do that!"

In Scotland, the only people who could plait, brush or 'play' with a woman's hair was her father, herself, mother, betrothed or her husband and evidently, this man was none of the prescribed unless he was older than he looked or was hiding a pair of tits underneath that tunic of his.

The man's head cocked to the side before a sly grin stretched across his face, a handsome look... If Lachina ignored the teasing glint in his eyes, amusement found as his fingers began to travel back to her hair, testing what she would do. Her cheeks blazed hotter as she felt his fingers pluck up the lock again, only this time as she smacked his hand away, she kept a hold of the appendage and twisted one of his fingers back by thrusting her thumb forward, soliciting a little hiss from the man that surely brought her more satisfaction than it rightly should. "No."

The one word bite seemed to do the job as he snatched his hand back, flicking his fingers, rubbing his knuckles and scowling at her from the corner of his eye. He seemed to get over the sting, to his finger and pride, quickly as he eyed her up and down before placing a hand on his chest, fingers sprawled apart and spoke. His voice wasn't high-pitched like the tall Dane. Neither was it gutturally mocking like that blond one she had injured. Instead, Lachina thought of polished sea stone, dark, black like onyx with white veins splintering its shiny face, strong but smooth. **"Ivar."**

Lachina frowned at him, confused beyond belief as she avidly watched him as he patted his chest and repeated the same word again and again. **"Ivar. Ivar. Ivar"**

Lachina didn't know why she began parroting him, but regardless, she did, her own heavy accent making it hard to wrap her tongue around the strong R and V. **"Ibarra?"**

He shook his head, something she couldn't name sparkling in his impossibly blue eyes, and tried again. **"Ivar. I-V-A-R. IV-AR. Ivar."**

Lachina's brows furrowed deeper, her nose crinkling slightly in concentration. **"I-farr?"**

That one brought a chuckle out of the man before he shook his head, this time however waiting for her to try again instead of repeating the one word. **"Ifar… Ifffar…Ivvarra… Ivvarr… Ivar."**

The bewildered look never left Lachina's face, even when he nodded, an act that seemed to surpass language barriers. **"Ivar?** What does that mean?"

The man's brows pinched together, clearly not understanding her point before he pointed at his chest and repeated the word. Did Ivar mean chest or… Oh! His name was Ivar. Without thinking clearly, or truly remembering what situation she was in, what had transpired just days and weeks prior, Lachina laughed, actually, god-given laughed as she pointed to him and nearly shouted the word, finally understanding. **"Ivar!** Ye're **Ivar!"**

Lachina hadn't realized she was smiling brightly until the man… Ivar pointed at her face and proclaimed a word proudly, her smile breaking and falling apart like a cliff-face when the earth shook like giants were fighting deep in the caves. **"Ivar… Ingrid… Ivar… Ingrid."**

His hand switched from patting his chest to pointing towards her, repeating the mantra like a prayer chant. Ingrid, what did that mean? She swore if it meant Scot, yet another name that was not a name, she would poke this Danes eyes out. But no, she didn't think it did, he had been pointing towards himself, using his name as he was doing to her when he called her Ingrid. Ingrid… Was that her name? Why… How did he even know her name? If anyone was to know it surely it would be her and yet all she had ever known was that horrid label she had adopted as her name, Lachina.

Lachina had no time to question this Ivar, as fruitless as that line of questioning would have gone as all she could apparently say in his language was his own name, when a flicker of light, orange and bright, danced underneath the door crack and the rattling sound of footsteps rang out. Someone was coming.

Ivar rolled off the bed and was gone before she could blink or comprehend someone was coming, completely out of view by the time the auburn lady came peering in, holding a candle and a strange goblet filled with some fluid. She looked confused, eyes slightly slanted as she peered around the room, seemingly searching the dark corners, cracks and hideaways before strolling over to Lachina, smiling softly as she saw the young girl wide awake, yet somehow still having that bewildered glint shine in the very back crevice of her eyes.

The lady said nothing as she set the goblet down on a side table and heaved Lachina up, propping her into the pillows, half sitting. Normally, Lachina would have put up a fight simply because she could, however, this time she didn't as she was too focused on watching Ivar crawl out from under the bed and in silence shimmy towards the now open door, the floorboards quiet under his weight.

Years later, she would still never be able to tell you why she did what she did next, not as the auburn lady began to turn towards Ivar, who still hadn't quite managed to slither from the room, surely about to spot Lachina's night time visitor. Before the auburn lady could fully turn, Lachina began to forcibly cough, earning the auburn ladies full and undivided attention as the fake cough inevitable turned very real very fast.

Although, before the coughing overtook her, before the auburn lady forced the goblet of icy water down her parched throat, Lachina could have sworn she saw Ivar look back of his shoulder and smirk at her before disappearing into the night like the way he came, without any pre-amble and utterly, as if the moon itself had eaten him from existence.

However, why she didn't try and tell the auburn haired lady about the strange man, even after he had left… Well, she had no idea. Worst of all, while Ivar had been in the room, she had not thought of her shoulder, the simmering pain, being captured or Cinead once. Now that was… Troubling.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER PREVIEW**

 **PART TWO**

 **~HOME COMING~**

 _Chapter VI_

 _~The Burning Cross~_

She knew what he was doing, this strange, lanky man. It was a game of this or that and they had been playing it for hours. He would put a group of objects in front of her and she simply chose one or none. This colour or that colour. Blue won out against yellow, green and red. Bow or axe. Axe had obviously won that round, earning her a grin from the man. Ring or bracelet. Neither as it turned out.

However, this one was different, more serious, the atmosphere grim as she looked down at the little trinkets presented to her. The cross, small and wooden, crudely tide together, nothing but twigs really and the intricate carving of what looked to be a hammer, patterns displayed proudly on it's face, both wooden, both presented to her on the table between her and the man she had come to understand was called Floki.

She couldn't describe the manic smile and giggle that broke free on his face as she picked up the cross and threw it into the lit hearth beside them, hearing the hiss and crackle as the cross burned. However, that smile didn't last long as Lachina snatched up the hammer carving and chucked that into the fire too. Now it was Lachina's turn to manically grin and chuckle at Floki's strained expression.

 _~LINE-BREAK~_

Tears balanced on the very end of Cinead's eyelashes, caressing the tips almost lovingly and Lachina was struck with the sight of them, their existence alone worrying. It was the first time she had ever seen Cinead cry."I'm not made for this Lachina, I'm going to die in this hellish place. I'm not strong like you... I'm not brave. I'm scared... I'm so fucking scared…"

Lachina reached over towards him, prying one of his hands away from his huddled knees and held it, trying with all her might to somehow send strength and hope through her skin into his, to give him warmth. Her own voice was croaky with restrained emotion as she spoke to him in hushed whispers, knowing exactly how he felt because she too had felt it a long time ago, back when she was tied to the courtyard pole. "When we're scared Cinead, really fucking scared, the kind that freezes our blood and stills our hearts painfully in our chests, that is the only time we can be truly brave. Ye need that strength if ye're going to get through this. These Danes… These people, they're not so bad. They give ye food, they've kept ye dressed and warm, ye have ye're own room. Trust me, it can be a lot worse. Count ye blessings and then…"

Cinead peeked at her, eyes wide and frightened. "And then?"

Lachina smiled, fangs pointed and teeth bright in the early morning light. "And then ye fight every bastard out there for more blessings. Nothings free Cinead, not even freedom. Remember that and fight for it."

* * *

 **Questions and Answers!**

 **How is Lachina going to handle being brought back to 'her' people?**

All I can say is not easily. Not easily at all. Lachina's stubborn and set in her own ways. That being said, that's half the fun isn't it? I want Lachina to have struggles and trouble adjusting, as well as the vikings having trouble adjusting to someone like Lachina. If I had her just appear be like, wow, my family! And have a happily ever after, there wouldn't be much of a story or a good story at all would there? However, she does eventually adjust and other things come into play but SPOILERS!

 **Lachina or Ingrid, what name is she going to use?**

At the moment, she is definitely Lachina. It's the only name she had ever known, even if it is a slur and a word used to remind Lachina of her place in Scottish society. Plus, she will sort of rebel against being called Ingrid for one simple fact, it's someone else telling her what she should be called, the same factor she has faced in Scotland and Lachina will have none of that having already put up with it once. However, there will be a switch later on, when Lachina finally accepts who and what she is and where she came from... _Where she belongs._ Trust me, you'll know when this switch happens. I hope that clears up the name issue. :)

 **Is Lachina going to learn Norse really fast?**

Short answer? No. It is going to take her a while and there will be slips. There's just too much fun to be had while they can't communicate properly and I'm planning to use that fully. I don't know about you guys, but when I've read other fanfiction where there are two languages going on and all of a sudden, after being there a day, the protagonist knows the language inside and out, it really pisses me off and inevitable puts me off the story. HOWEVER, it's not going to take Lachina 80,000 words to finally be able to talk to the Norseman, that would just as equally ruin the story. Hopefully I've found a good balance and you guys will think so too.

 **Is Lachina Christian?**

No. She's not. In Scotland, around the time this is set, from the research I've done (Disclaimer, I'm no historian in any way) Irish missionaries had only just began turning some clan heads towards Christianity, and there were a lot of clans around at the time. Sermons were still held in Latin, something not popular in Scotland in the time and really, the only people who went to church or understood Christianity were the higher caste of society, which in no way Lachina was a part of. Cinead is Christian and so is his family because of their dealing with the Anglo-kingdoms, as well, Cinead spent a good portion of his childhood being fostered in Northumbria, as well as his mother coming from there, Christianity has sort of snook into his family so to speak. That's how Lachina knows of Christianity, from Cinead telling her, but it is not her religion in any form. Although, neither is the Scottish pagan religion, although Lachina holds more favour with that then Christianity, ,mainly the superstitions and myths I will be dusting this story with, because of the tales she heard growing up. Lachina is more of a hybrid, a cross between **Agnostic** and **Letsism**. (The belief that there is something or somethings out there, but humans are either unable to fathom it or without scientific or hard proof to prove that it either exists or doesn't, a decision can't be made to it's existence or non-existence.) Will it stay that way? I'm not sure at the moment, we'll see where the story heads, but this will come into play later with a bit of conflict thrown in. (Can we guess who will be bringing the conflict? XD)

 **Update Schedule.**

To be honest, I can't set one up. I try posting each week, but life sometimes get in the way. The reason this chapter was so late was because I had quite a bad chest infection that knocked me on my arse for a good two, three weeks. Btw **SORRY THIS CHAPTER IS SO LATE** , but to be honest, I really couldn't write while being as ill as I was. So, while I really will try and update each week, (Thursdays or Fridays) I really can't make any solid promises, after all I'm still trying to fight off this bloody chest infection. XD

 **A.N:** Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! They give me things to ponder and question, which is always a good thing. They also give me the drive to carry on, even when I'm feeling ill like I have been lately, so thank you guys and here, have a cyber chocolate! ( If I could send you all real ones through the computer screen, I would! At last, that technology hasn't been made yet.) Also, thank you for all those who followed and favourite'd, I hope you're all enjoying the story so far and continue to do so.

 **Please if you have time to type away, please do and leave a juicy review! They make my day. Until next time, I'm out!- carelessdodger**


	6. Broken, Believers and Bellied laughter

**"Hello."** \- Old Norse, bold.

 _"Hello."_ \- Old English, Italicized.

"Hello."- Scottish, normal. (When just Vikings are just present, when Lachina learns Old Norse, then also Old Norse.)

* * *

 **Chapter VI:**

 _Broken, Believers and bellied laughter._

Ivar, whittled down to his basic core, was a thinker and as a thinker, knew how many things worked. It was a talent of his, to take things apart nail by nail and mapping it out in his mind, knowing how this or that part worked, how it fit into the hole, what part it played, it's weak points as well as it's strong ones, if mixed with another part, could and would it be better? If drenched in another material, would it deminish its strength or heighten it? That talent of his, almost omnipotent and without failure, didn't just lend its bony, wraith like hands to the physical but to the metaphorical too.

Ivar, if anything, was brilliant at reading people. He was a master at reading between the lines. He knew people's soft spots a sentence or two into a conversation. He knew how to goad people into the reaction he wanted, mostly anger. He loved seeing the spark of indignation and rage flare in the back of a pupil. He knew who would work well with who. On the opposite hand, he knew who would clash, argue and spill blood upon the other. He knew how far he could bend people until they broke. He had to, after all, after all the times he had been excluded, left on the sidelines, left to watch and hope, only to be forgotten in the shade, left to collect dust and wrinkles, it was the only thing he could do growing up. Ivar, boiled down to the very marrow in his bones, was a strategist.

In spite of that, in the world he lived in, the people that surrounded him, who dictated laws and facts, strategist's were never in the thick of it, were never valued as high as they should have been, not like how he wanted to be, not how a true Viking should be. Strategists were left behind, they planned and mulled over maps, they spoke only for others to act. They didn't sail, they didn't end up in the throng of a fight with blood on their face showing the glory to their gods, well-earned glory that gave them passage to the hallowed halls of Valhalla. Strategists were the puppet masters to the puppets.

Nevertheless, Ivar wasn't happy with just being the puppet master, he didn't want to be the one behind the glory, he didn't want to take a back-seat, he wanted both. He wanted to _be_ both _._ He wanted to speak and act. He wanted to plan and fight. He wanted it all, the good, the bad, the pain, the blood, the loss and the victory. But his legs... His curse from the gods he so fervently prayed to take away from him, held him back. No. That was wrong. It wasn't his legs that held him back. He knew what he was capable of even with his legs. It was how people viewed him and his legs that held him back.

 _What use did a cripple have on a battlefield?_

However, the fire in his veins, rising in tempo and heat with each passing day, the need, the want, the absolution, he knew wouldn't quell, it wouldn't settle for a compromise. He was more than a cripple, more than his legs, despite what all the other spineless bastards whispered when they thought his ears could not reach their tormenting whispers. His brothers included. In short, Ivar was growing tired of how things were going, how things were being done, how it looked like his life would play out, always in the shadows of his brothers or father, coddled by his loving, well-meaning mother, thirsting for... More and if something didn't change soon, if he did nothing about it quickly, he was sure his already strained restraint on his ever-present anger would snap and only Odin knew what would befall him or others around him.

 _Perhaps then, it was a gift from the all-father himself that she came when she did._

Ivar was no newborn when it came to broken things. He, himself, in most eyes, was a broken thing. Something to discard, to leave to die in the back-end of a woods or forest for the starving animals to scavenge and rip to shreds. so at least some goodness would come from the birth of something so monstrous. He liked to collect broken things too, things others would throw away, burn or forget about. While his brothers bought new armour or leathers from the market, Ivar would rather have his own sewn back up, crudely, so he could still see the rough stitching, could feel the lumps and tears if he ran his fingers across it, almost like a still healing scar.

Sometimes, in the dead of the night, especially when he was younger, he would pick up the plates and cups from the feasting table and throw them down on the floor, watching as they smashed and scattered their chunks and bits across the wooden flooring, some even indenting the wooden planks, leaving their mark, showing their history of existence, ignoring his mother as she scorned him for such behaviour, his mind lost in one word. Broken.

 _Broken like him._

So, when he was mulling the day away by keeping company with his mother, whittling down the hours until night swept in and took him into dreams where he wasn't a cripple. Where he could walk, run, fight and dance. Blissful dreams that took away the pain he felt every day, the constant ache, his first thought when a windswept Floki and his brothers, sea salt still crested on their beards and brows, blundered into the room with something huddled, wrapped in fur cloaks, hidden from the world apart from the crown of a ruby coloured head, Ivar had once again thought that same word.

 _Broken._

However, this time it was different. This time was unique. He had previously thought of broken in terms of clothes and items, cups and plates, toys and crates, things he had broken himself just to feel so not... Alone, but only once had he ever thought that word in conjunction with a person, when he looked into a mirror or the still seashore and saw himself. Yet, here this person was, broken like him, huddled and hidden away from his prying eyes... And then his mother had ushered them all out of the room, her words only peeking his interest even further, if possible.

Aslaug had obviously been expecting this person, perhaps not that day by the small stall she had fallen into upon the sight, but she had been expecting them all the same. Which meant she knew who it was, knew enough that she didn't question the abruptness, knew it was a her, knew more than he did and the feeling didn't sit right in Ivar's guts. He didn't like anyone knowing more than he did, even his precious mother. His mind was the only true weapon he had, to lose an edge on that spelled disaster.

Although, unlike his brothers who did as they were bidden to do, he left as he should have, but stayed by the door, waiting for the right time to slink back in, crouched and crawling like a worm in the mud. Blended and camouflaged. It didn't take long to be forgotten about, it never did, his brothers having quickly lost interest and wondering off to celebrate their great return, his mother, Helga and Floki too preoccupied with the other inhabitant of the room to really pay attention and notice the creak of the door opening a fraction, just enough for him to peek through the slither, the door just at the right angle for him to get a good look at the girl spread on the bed.

She was bare apart from a thin linen cloth draped over her front to give some modesty, her skin glistening in the low light of the fireplace, tinged yellow from the bright rays, her red hair, long, impossibly curly, a wonderful, bloodlust red, but as Floki, who was partially perched over the prone girl, rolled her onto her side to wrap the blanket around her back and secure it in place, Ivar caught a glimpse of her back and the air in his throat clogged and frosted there as if it was a window, like winter moss.

A patchwork of scars laced across her back, even further he would guess, though, the thin blanket hid that truth. Thick, angry rips scaling and crossing over the other, bumpy slashes that, when surely they used to be a wound, could have been bone deep. Some were whispy white, delicate like lace, ghosting across like painted spider webs, little brushes of pain and heartache. In his short life, Ivar would admit, he had never seen something quite as beautiful as he did right then. For, if this thin, lanky, young woman could survive such a thing, live with the pain, perhaps even garner strength through and from it, surely he could survive with what the gods had handed him, he could survive his legs, perhaps even use it to strengthen himself. He felt something then, something he had not in a long, long time, when he used to go out to the woods and look at the night sky, speaking, praying to any god that would listen to him.

 _He felt hope._

The sight was snatched away from him before he was really even given it as Floki gently rolled the woman onto her back, the blanket in place, her head flopping to the side in her unconsciousness, curls falling from her shoulders and ribs. Nonetheless, it seemed the gods were in good favour today, as when they took, they gave back, because now he could see what had Floki, Helga and Aslaug in such a rush and why healing herbs and boiled water was needed. If her dewy, spiderweb of scars littering her back was beautiful then the starburst, seeping wound splintering her shoulder was simply magnificent.

The beauty of it all only grew tenfold as he watched her wake up, watched as she shouted gruffly in her foreign tongue, rolling R's, poignant A's and peaking constants at the other slave Floki had brought, the blonde haired princeling who looked like a good northern wind could snap him in half, watched as she gripped Floki's arm that was pinning her down, words lost in translation, but meaning present through the flash of her effervescent eyes, colours Ivar had never seen present in anyone else's before, finger nails nearly drawing blood, holding strength she surely shouldn't have after sustaining such a wound. Whatever she had said, it was a promise, an oath.

He watched as Helga and Aslaug joined Floki, searing dagger ready to close the wound, watched as the woman struggled, clenched, undulated as the skin bubbled and hissed under searing metal, and yet no scream, shout, yell, damn, even a yelp never passed her lips and Ivar's curiosity was solidified in that moment. So was that tiny bubble of hope that floated in his chest that had burst forth since she had been carried into the room and subsequently his life.

She was broken, scarred, but she was strong enough to get through it all and still somehow, someway, manage to keep her dignity and will in stony silence that belied the wrath, ambition and hidden strength in her thin frame. If she could do all that... He could too. Just as her scars and wounds wouldn't be all she was or will be, something deep within his mind telling him she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, neither would his legs.

Six days later, with only her name being known to him, having picked it up between the whispers of his mother and Floki, Ingrid, his curiosity still frothing on the tip of his tongue, hoping to sate it, Ivar took matters into his own hands after being rebuffed by everyone who knew something, including his own mother, a first that had shocked him. After one last pitched effort aimed at his mother, another failure, he dipped into what had been re-assigned as her room in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, it only made his boundless curiosity and intrigue about the alien, broken being more thirsty.

* * *

It had been nearly two weeks since Ivar had last seen or heard of the girl with blood for hair and wolf's eyes. He had planned on going back the night after, if only to quench the need for knowledge, but Helga was always in there, and if not, his mother was and during the day Floki was unmoveable from the room and all three banned any visitors from wandering in.

However, wander in he did not, no, just like that first night, he hid by the door, listened, peeked through the cracks and crevices and did what he did best, he watched. For the first few days, especially as the woman grew more steady and aware, he swore he could feel the thick tension waft through the room, drifting out the door and up his nostrils. It smelled spicy. She was like a taught bowstring, seconds away from snapping an arrow loose, eyes slit and baleful as she stared at Floki, watching very much how Ivar watched her, waiting for something, anything to happen.

He only had an hour or two each day, a slot between his own duties and not rousing suspicion from either his mother or brothers, but that precious time he used well. At first, when Floki began to bring things into the room, laying them out on the table for her inspection, a game of this or that Ivar gathered, she point blankly refused any and all attempts of communication, instead asking in a husky voice "Cinead?" And when Floki gave a head shake at the question, later, after asking Ubbe, Ivar found out it was that blonde princeling that looked thin... Weak, she was asking for, she would snarl at Floki and determinedly turn and face out the small window of the room or stare into the fire, ending all further attempts.

Still, Floki persevered, always bringing trinkets into the room until finally, after she began to be able to stand and slowly hobble around the room, dressed in an old linen shirt and leather breeches, barefoot, she began to play along. While Floki found out which this or that she would choose, Ivar played his own little game, his game of deconstruction and wonder.

He noticed how her toes would dig into the lush fur rug under the table when she began sitting at it, little appendages twirling and playing with the strands of hair idly, soft soles brushing lovingly across the grey comfort, as if she had never felt something so decadent. He noticed how her hand would stall before she picked up the golden goblet of water, unsure whether she was allowed to touch such a thing or not. He noticed how her eyes lit up when they spotted the little wooden figurine of a horse Floki had brought with him, a wisp of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth before she snatched it up and away from the other animal figurines Floki had carved and brought with him that day.

He noticed, unlike many of the Viking women he knew, who took pride in their intricate hairstyles, she cared very little of her own hair, despite it's unique and vibrant colour, never trying to brush it, plait it or calm the aggravated curls that were growing more and more wild with each passing day. Instead she chose to either tug the mass back roughly, or use a leather cord she had pulled free from the bottom of her torn breeches to tie it back plainly. He noticed how, when Floki brought in food, she would always wait for him to eat first before she delved into her own. Yet, she never went for the rich spit-roasted meat, honeyed and spiced, never went for the ale, hops newly harvested, instead choosing the plain breads, perhaps a cheese and if she was feeling daring, an apple. She always eyed the food wearily, those bits she didn't pick, as if she had never seen them before, or, at least, never been offered them. He swore he even once saw her cautiously poke a broiled fish when Floki looked away. But the day always ended the same, one uttered word through her clenched teeth... "Cinead?" and as soon as Floki declined, she clammed shut, turned wintery, angered, violent in some cases... Beautiful.

However, what he had not noticed was while Floki, Helga, all of Kattegat had not noticed what he had been doing, this strange woman had, and she too, just like him, had been watching him through the crack of the door.

His spying had started out very much like the days prior. This time Floki was already halfway through his game, the woman, Ingrid, was playing along today, and oddly enough, seemed to be enjoying herself. Floki had started the game out easy enough, with simple, inconsequential picks. What colour, she chose blue. Bow or axe, in which she snatched up the axe in record timing, eyeing the weapon before relinquishing it back to Floki regrettably as if debating whether to use it on the man or not. Funny enough, Floki had found that hilarious by his peal of giggles that rippled through the air. When Floki placed a ring and bracelet on the table, however, things began to take a turn for something more... More.

Ivar didn't know whether Ingrid knew the significance or not, unlikely due to her unperturbed response of pushing them both away with her good arm in one swoop, but Ivar new, and so did Floki by the slightly pinched look his lips had taken on. The ring, while plain, was obviously Saxon made and Ivar himself, when the new slaves were carted back by longship, had seen many of them wearing such a thing. However, the bracelet was silver, twisted, not quite meeting at one end, a bracelet every Viking man would wear.

Unhappy with this choice, or how slow communication was going and the redundant answers he was getting, Floki placed two more objects onto the table, the atmosphere lofty as Ingrid peered down at the little trinkets presented to her. The cross, small and wooden, crudely tied together, nothing but twigs really and the intricate carving of what looked to be a hammer, patterns displayed proudly on its face, Thor's symbol, nearly identical to the amulet Ivar wore around his own neck, also given to him by Floki.

Everything was still for what felt like a lifetime as her nimble fingers, those too scarred, gingerly picked up the cross, her eyes lost somewhere in the past as she brushed her thumb over the little cross, Floki's shoulders tensing, teeth clenching and then... Then she surprised them both as she snapped to, grinning, teeth glinting in the daylight as she flung the little cross into the lit hearth beside them. The tension eased out of Floki like a raging damn finally set free and even Ivar winced slightly as his maniacal giggle pierced the air, his fingers coming up to do the gods know what before the unpredictable woman acted again, snatching up the amulet and throwing that too into the fire. Floki stalled, eyes wide, frozen and finally, for the first time, Ivar heard Ingrid laugh. It was husky, deep, but with a sharp edge in the back, as if listening to a great dog growl ominously before it pounced and yap gleefully as it greeted its owner simultaneously. Eerily, she sounded so much like Floki that Ivar couldn't help but not store that tidbit of knowledge away.

Floki eyed her, likely wondering as Ivar was, if she had done what she had done on purpose, or whether it was simply to get a rise out of Floki, something she had gained, and by the twinkle in her eye that rivalled the northern star ablaze in a dead night, Ivar began to believe it was the latter rather than the former.

Ingrid flopped back into her chair, away from leaning over the table as she did when she was choosing an object, obviously done with the game for a day, her lips opening to speak, likely for that damned same request she asked every day, Cinead, and Ivar began to heave his waist off the floor, about to leave. He didn't need to stay for this, she would ask, Floki would decline, she would retreat to the hearth or the window and then that would be the end of today's happenings.

Just as Ivar was about to raise his palm and began to crawl away, his eyes straying to Ingrid one last time, mind still filled with endless questions of who she was, why Floki, Helga and his mother gave such things to her, why she was treated differently to the other slaves, what this Skotland was like, how she could still carry on even with her back in pieces, what made her tick, who exactly was this Cinead to her and why did she want him so much, he stalled as her eyes trailed the room, flickering to the door, exactly where he was, by the bottom before slamming back to Floki.

Instead of wanting to watch like he so often did, this time it was the only thing he _could_ do as he watched Ingrid sit back up, as straight as her still injured shoulder allowed her to, grinned, head slightly cocked to one side and pinned both him and Floki to place with her request this day. **"Ivar?"**

Floki floundered and Ivar's heart spluttered in his chest. Did she know he was here? Had she always known? Or had she only just saw him? Or, in the rush of the night, in the mist of fever, did she not understand what he had been trying to tell her and believed Ivar meant something else? His own questions, rushed and hectic, mirrored Floki's own bewildered response, his own head cocking to the side as he eyed Ingrid... Just like she had done. Another thing to mentally take note of. **"Ivar? You... Do you know Ivar?"**

Her small nose, spotted with a constellation of freckles, scrunched up slightly, confused by the extra words she couldn't understand, and yet... Yet again, she surprised them both by showing Floki wasn't the only one who had been learning of her, of her language, of who she was. That Ivar hadn't been the only one watching, waiting, picking things up from the in between. Her accent made the words hard to distinguish, some too soft, some too sharp, words blunt, garbled, but meaning present, just clear enough to decipher the words. **"Want Ivar. Giff... Give Ivar. Want...** No **... No door. Want Ivar. Give Ivar."**

Floki's brows pulled down sharply as he parroted Ingrid's words. **"Want Ivar? Give him?... No door?... No.. Door. Door!"**

Floki then swiveled around in his seat, pinning the door Ivar was hiding behind with curious glance, his own, dark eyes sprinkled with something Ivar couldn't name. Still, despite what his mind was telling him to do, a hasty retreat and no look-backs, he stayed as still as carved stone, as Floki jumped up from his chair, clambered towards the slightly ajar door and swung it open, spotting Ivar half perched against the wall and looking up at Floki with a bashful grin. **"Hello Ivar, what a surprise it is to find you here. Do you want to tell me how Ingrid knows your name?"**

* * *

 _Lachina's P.O.V:_

Lachina had come to the end of her rope. These Danes were hardy, forthright, and there was no way to escape, not with her injured shoulder. The only thing she could do was try and find Cinead, to know if he was still alive, if he was well, and plan escape for the both of them after she had confirmation an escape was possible for _both_ of them.

However, each and everytime she had asked to see him, asked for him, asked anything about him, she got nothing in return, despite her doing exactly what they wanted, when they wanted, how they wanted. She played their games, as best as she could, without complaint. She ate and drank when they told her to, not used to eating during the day like lords and ladies would, used to scavaging what she could from the kitchens in the night, after supper had been cooked and nothing would be missed if she ate it. Half the food Lachina didn't know what was what, and stuck to what she was allowed to eat and drink back in the broche, not willing to risk the Danes wrath if she chose something out of her station here, despite the taunting and tantalizing smells they presented her with. _Tests._ These were tests, she was sure of it. Tests to make sure she knew where she belonged in the totem pole and by mercy, she knew, she had known since she was born. If they wanted to see if she would be an obedient slave, she would play the part, she had been her whole life.

She had even let the blonde lady change her shoulder dressing last night without so much of a hiss or snarl, even though she knew nothing of the herbs and plants the blonde woman was padding her shoulder with. It could have been poison, yet, she let them and still, after weeks of being locked in a room, weeks playing her part of the obedient servant, she still got no hide nor hair of Cinead and her patience was wearing thin. So, Lachina had decided a different approach would be necessary.

These people, the Danes, when she had expected nothing but beatings, a whipping or two, the same routine that happened to slaves who traded owners, a routine Lachina was painfully familiar with at this point in her life, had done nothing such, leaving Lachina unbalanced, unsure, unsteady in what she was, what she was meant to do, what they wanted from her. And so, if they were going to be unpredictable to her, she would need to be unpredictable to them too, just something enough to weasel away in, to garner something... Anything of their intentions towards her, towards Cinead.

So, that day, after playing along once more, she had acted. Instead of requesting for Cinead as best as she could with the language barrier in the way, another useless request the Dane called Floki, the name she had picked up from what the blonde lady and auburn haired lady would call him when they passed each other on the way in and out of the room, the only word they kept using when conversing with him, Lachina had asked for the man who stayed by the door day in day out, a guard perhaps? The man who had crawled into her room at the night.

 _Ivar._

Maybe that was why he had been in her room if he was a guard, someone to watch and make sure she didn't escape. Perhaps he had heard her awaken and came in to make sure she was not in process of running off, and left in such a hurry when the auburn-haired Lady came in because he wasn't meant to be in the room but on duty. However, her self-explanation fell flat when Floki opened the door and the two began conversing in their strange, majestic language, only for Floki to laugh loudly, step aside, bend down, ruffled Ivar's hair affectionately, step aside and ushered the blue-eyed man in with a wicked grin and a sweep of open palm.

She didn't know much about this Floki character... Damn it, she didn't know much about the Danes in general, but by his bearing, his clothes, the face paint, the way he acted, she had supposed he was of higher standing in this land, high enough standing to not be on such affectionate or friendly terms with a supposed guard. Yet, these weren't Scot's, these were Danes, and she kept measuring them by Scottish standards. Mayhaps it was common practice here to be so close with the labor and slaves, friendly even, when in Scotland the higher ups wouldn't be caught dead offering them scraps let alone ruffling one's hair...

There were too many unknowns, too many factors Lachina couldn't account for, too many blank spaces she needed to fill in if she was ever going to get anywhere. The only thing to solve it was to know them better. If she knew their culture, their habits, their language, how their minds worked, then she would know what they wanted, she would know what she had to bargain with, what she would have to get around to get her and Cinead out of here. But first, mainly, she needed to know what the hell they were saying. Only then would she know what they wanted from her and that... That she could work with.

She was tugged out of her musings by the scrapping of a stall being dragged to the table by Floki, watching from the corner of her eye as Floki sat back into his chair and Ivar heaved himself into the stall, spending a moment or two re-aligning his legs, perched just between her and Floki, trapped in the middle as if he was some mediator. Well, at least she knew now that they weren't denying her because of herself, but what she was asking for. If they were willing to bring the could-be-could-not-be guard into the room on her single request, then it was they were simply not willing for her to be near Cinead... Or there was no longer a Cinead to bring to her. _No. He was alive. He was. He had to be._ Thankfully, Floki's whimsical voice brought her out of her darkening thoughts, first pointing to the man beside them and then to her before folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair, as if saying have at it. **"Ivar... Give. Done."**

Lachina didn't know what to do now that they had actually brought him in. She hadn't been expecting it. It had been a test on her part to see if it was her they were denying or denying something else. But, she supposed, now was as good as ever to begin learning their language. Floki had yet to try and teach her any of it, this man, however, this Ivar, it was the first thing he had tried to do with her. Perhaps he was a tutor of some sort? Someone they sent to the slaves to acclimatize them? That theory seemed stronger than her guard one. Either way, it was something productive to do, being idle, without purpose or task was something Lachina was not used to and not sure how to handle, as well as being a step in the right direction, Lachina tried her best to get her questions across.

Pointing at herself, she spoke what Ivar had called her **"Ingrid."** She pointed to him. **"Ivar."** Jolting her chin in Floki's direction, she carried on. **"Floki."** And then she pointed back to the hearth, to the fire she had thrown the intricate foreign carving into, curiosity gnawing at the edges of her mind on exactly what it was she had burnt in a rash act to have a moment of laughter at unseating the man who kept her unsteady with his actions and questions day in day out. An action she was quickly coming to regret. However, she didn't know how to say 'what?" So she only hummed... Hopefully, questioningly. **"Mmmm?"**

One of Ivar's brows pitched an inch higher, obviously lost as he quickly glanced to Floki before his burning gaze settled back on her. His eyes were intense, cold but with an impossible prickly heat that made Lachina want to itch and claw at her skin. Finally, he answered her after scanning where she pointed. **"Fire?"**

Lachina frowned, pulling back slightly into her chair, her arm flopping into her lap, the only arm she could move. **"Feera... Feer... Fir... Fire. Fire?"** That little carving that must have taken not only high amounts of skill but time and passion was called a **Fire?** What an odd name. What did it do? Was it a symbol of something higher? Why else would Floki place it with such an obvious cross? To be fair, by the tight look on Ivar's face, he was as lost as she was and there was no way to get her questions across accurately.

Yet, as Ivar leaned forward, as if to peer behind her and into the fire, still curious on what she was asking, his necklace dangled just far enough from his neck for Lachina to get a good view of it. _There! The same symbol!_ It was everywhere. On the doors, on people's necks, and she was sure it was even embossed on one of Floki's leather cuffs. Was it their king? Their leader? Perhaps it was their version of Saxon coins with the face of their kings stamped on the back, to show what kingdom they fell into.

Before she could really think about her actions and what the consequences could be, her limited time with the Danes, not having once been struck by one apart from on the battlefield dampening her should be water tight caution, as well as their almost seemingly loving care and healing that surely no slave would be offered, no matter what land they resided in, Lachina's hand shot out, plucking the necklace closer, tugging it closer and mindlessly, pulling said owner closer.

In her enthusiasm, the action didn't flutter across her mind but thankfully, her enthusiasm also seemed to blind Ivar to the abrupt action too, the two huddled close together. Clasping the little carving, holding it out for Ivar to see, Lachina spoke. **"Fire?"**

Recognition bloomed on his sharp featured face as Lachina bent it this way and that, spending the time to really look at this time, fingers prodding and probing the polished wood. If this was the symbol of their king, he must of been a mighty one indeed to have such a large hammer as his sygil. **"No. Thor... Thor... TH-OR... THOR."**

Attention momentarily snagged from the carving, Lachina blinked owlishly. **"Mor... Cor... For... Thorm... TH-OR... Thor?"** And as Lachina tried to get her questions across about this mysterious king called Thor, and Ivar tried his best to answer in words and actions Lachina tried to understand, for the second time since meeting him, she forgot about Cinead, forgot about escape, forgot about Floki, the man currently watching them with bright eyes, too bright, and got lost in a child-like wonder of the world around her that even as a child herself, she had never felt. Not the curiosity, having never found the need to question life as a slave, you simply did what you were told or died. Never asking about the world around her, what use would trees or plants or carvings have for her or the tasks her masters set her to?

Ivar, be he a guard, a tutor, a slave himself or even a lord, though, she doubted it, somehow, someway, did something no one else had ever down. Something even Cinead had never accomplished. He fogged her vision. He made her look at the world and actually... Wonder. Wonder what something was, what something meant, what it was for, why it was there, and not if it would lead to pain or death to herself or those very few she cared about. It was... Liberating in a way. If she was conscious of this feeling at the time, she would have wondered if this is what freedom tasted like. That being said, if she was conscious of it, she would have shut it off, closed in on herself, built her walls higher, adamantly refusing to focus on anything other then finding Cinead and getting him to the freedom he deserved, forgetting about her own needs and wants.

For a short while, Ivar made her _believe_ she was free.

* * *

 _Floki's P.O.V_

However, unbeknownst to her, Floki was happy with this progress. After weeks of nothing but _"Cinead?"_ and nothing but that, he had begun to give up hope on ever getting anything other from her, be it an angry 'Fuck off' or what he had truly wanted since, by perfect chance, stumbling across her in the battlefield. They had finally got her talking... Or at least, she was now trying to. Now he just had to keep that going, just had to nudge the door she had opened a slither a bit more open, inch by inch until he was inside, until she willingly let him in. Slanting his eyes to Ivar, he took in both their animated gestures, their frowns, their smiles when on understood what the other was getting at, their misunderstandings, the confusion, the exchange not only opening a door in Ingrid, but one in Ivar too, something Floki, despite how much time he spent around the young man, being there since birth to now, had not seen before.

Floki wasn't stupid, unlike some of Ivar's brothers, he knew what their, and others, seemingly good-natured taunts really did to the young man's confidence. He didn't turn a useless but hopeful blind eye like Aslaug did, he saw how the men and women treated Ivar, an outcast, something to look at but never touch, never to invite inside your house. What sort of life could that possibly be? Not one Floki would like to live... Like Floki's little Ingrid life... Who wasn't so little anymore, that still left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Ivar was an outcast in the land he belonged in, where home should be, due to nothing on their part but the gods own fathomless plans... But together... With one another, perhaps something inside both of them seeing the same in the other, calling to one another, two stones polished by the same riptide, together they wouldn't be outcasts, they wouldn't be alone.

He watched in silent amazement as two people, who couldn't speak the same language, who had lead very obviously different lives, scarred and aged beyond their years, seemingly brushed off the metaphorical dirt, hurt and pain and clicked together like two links in a chain that the rest of the world couldn't meld or bend to fit its own chain. He should have known, as a stout believer, the gods had known what they had been doing all along. They were finally on the right pathway, well, Floki thought so until Ingrid snapped in his direction, obviously not quite understanding who or what Thor was by her demand and in spite of Ivar's best efforts to show her, speaking once more. **"Want Thor. Give Thor."**

Now it was Ivar's turn to laugh without restraint.

* * *

 **A.N:** I know, I know, I changed what I was supposed to do for this chapter, but I really wanted to try a hand at prodding into Ivar's mind. The temptation was too strong! Some parts I'm happy with, others... Not so much XD But, It's the best I can do for now and hopefully in time I will get better at ironing out and writing from Ivar's P.O.V.

It has also been a long, long while since I last updated, but I've been ill and life did what it did best and got in the way. I hope you can forgive me and I promise I'll try to keep the updates regular. That being said, if time does drag on between updates, just know I have no plans to abandon this fic, in fact, I have a lot planned out for it and I'm quite excited to get to some points. There wasn't really that many questions last chapter, so no Q&A for this one, however, if you do have one, feel free to either P.M it me or drop it in a review, I read every single one. I just want to say thank you to everyone's reviews, they keep the inspiration flowing and made me smile while I was ill, so hugs to all of you! Thank you all to those who followed and favourited too, hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it (Which is alot!)

If you could do a little fanfic author a favour, please leave a review, you never know, the chapters may come out faster XD

 **~carelessdodger.**


	7. Falling

" **Hello**."- Old Norse, bold.

" _Hello_."- Old English, Italicized.

"Hello."- Scottish, normal. (When just Vikings are just present, when Lachina learns Old Norse, then also Old Norse.)

* * *

 **CHAPTER VII**

 **INGRID P.O.V**

"There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier... Who wandered far away and soldiered far away… There was none bolder, with good broad shoulders... He fought in many a fray... He's seen the glory, he's told the story… Of battles glorious and deeds victorious… But now he's sighing, his heart is crying… To leave these green hills of Tyrol."

The wind was icy that night. Frigid and biting the exposed flesh of Ingrid's face, reddening her nose, cheeks and lips. The fur wrapped around her shoulders barely kept the pins and needles away, and yet… And yet she relished the sting that blossomed on her skin. The temperature almost matched the cold hollowness of her hushed voice, floating on the breeze of the open window she was perched upon, pupils unfocused, face upturned to the lonely, pale moon high in the sky. "Because these green hills are not Highland hills... Or the Island's hills, they're not my land's hills... As fair as these green foreign hills may be...They are not the hills of home."

It was an old song she had caught withered and battle scared soldiers singing, the ones forced to beg because age had snatched their strength in the night, leaving them brittle and weak, begging and dirty because the gods had not seen just in giving them a quick death upon the battle field. She had never understood the song before. Hadn't even realised she had it memorised. Could never fathom the want or need to see the soil and horizon that had greeted you at birth. To her, to Ingrid, death had been death. It mattered not where it happened. "And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier... Who wandered far away and soldiered far away… Sees leaves are falling, and death is calling... And he will fade away, on that dark land… He called his piper, his trusty piper… And bade him sound away, a pibroch sad to play… Upon a hillside, a Scottish hillside… Not on these green hills of Tyrol..."

Now… Now she understood. She cared not for the people back across the lengthy sea, cared not for the life she had lead, cared not about the gods or markets, but the land… The land she missed terribly, achingly, irrevocably. She missed the smell of moss and morning dew in the morning, not this smell of sea salt and ice that permeated the air of this alien land. She missed the lochs, glistening and blue and deep. The water here seemed darker, more insidious and harsher. She missed the squelch of mud under barefoot, the evergreen needles in her hair, the musky mushrooms that littered the clearings, the hills and crags and flat lands of the Barron's and burroughs… She missed it all as deeply as the lochs, as darkly as this foreign water and as bitingly as the sting of frost on her cheeks. And so… And so she sang to the only witness who would listen and perhaps, understand. The moon. "And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier… Who wanders far no more, and soldiers far no more… Now on a hillside, a Scottish hillside… You'll see a piper play this soldier home… He's seen the glory, he's told the story… Of battles glorious, and deeds victorious… But he will cease now, he is at peace now… Far from these green hills of Tyrol."

Would she die here? Never to see the highlands again? Did she want to if it meant going back to being a slave? Was she still a slave? Where they just waiting for her shoulder to heal before putting her out to work like a lame sheep? She didn't know. She just missed home. She almost laughed… Or cried, she couldn't tell, like a lot of things lately. It had taken all this, being captured, near death, pain and anger and everything and nothing in between the two to realise Scotland was home. The land was her land. The sky her sky. Even the moon seemed more lonely here. " **You're sad."**

Ingrid didn't jump or flinch. She only turned to face the intruder. Ivar. She had been expecting him. Like fog, he drifted in through the door crack each night. Sometimes he was viciously happy, teeth sharp and snarky as he taunted and prodded her. Sometimes he talked animatedly even if she could not understand him. Sometimes he seemed angry, would say nothing but stay until sunrise where he would slither out of her room as quietly as he entered. She couldn't blame him. Sometimes she would rage and snarl and throw things around the room like a whirlwind until her strength had been swept away by the wind she had created, Cinead's name nothing but a dead rattle in the back of her throat. Sometimes she would simply sit next to him and watch the flames of the hearth dance for hours at a time. Sometimes, when the mood struck, she would tell him stories, legends of heroes and gods, of Biera and her hammer and the unfortunate Loch Ness.

There was something freeing about speaking and acting so openly to a stranger who could not understand a word you said. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Like all things, winter had melted into spring and they were beginning to pick up the odd word here and there, know each others facial expressions, no matter how guarded they tried to make them be, knew the gist of how the other felt, no words needed. It was insurmountably dangerous, and yet Ingrid couldn't stop. These four walls, Ivar, Floki, it was all she had known for the last month or two. It had to have been that long, her shoulder was now scarring, scab flaking off like how the comprehension of time had left her. Bit by bit, by bit. " **Whavv… What… Am… I?"**

* * *

 **IVAR P.O.V**

His laughter died as quickly as it came when he saw the twisted brows and broad set of her mouth, lips thinned and pale. He too frowned as he crawled to the nearest chair and heaved himself up, settling in to face her as he spoke. From the short time he had been studying her, getting to know her, he had realised one thing. You couldn't. She was unpredictable. Unquantifiable. She was a wolf in human skin, all bite and fang and throwing vases and plates at walls, tearing up bedsheets… She even once tried to set fire to the room with a log from the hearth. Then, sometimes she was like a puppy, curious, joyful, all smiles and waving hands as she ranted and raved in that clacking language of hers, pacing the room as she tried to act out what she was talking about. She laughed loudly, raged brutally, brooded like a scorned goddess and smiled with all teeth. Extreme. Intense. Like the very fire they sometimes stared into when both of them just wanted the world to fade away. " **You're Ingrid?"**

It came out more of a question than a statement and Ingrid's shoulders tensed, nostrils flaring. From his seat, he could see out of the low set window just as well as she could, and as a thrall passed by, arms filled with cloth, Ingrid sharply jerked her head in the young woman's direction. " **Me?"**

It took the time of the thrall passing by for Ivar to understand what she was trying to ask. His laughter was as bright as it was harsh as he shook his head. " **Slave? No. You're… Ingrid… Ingrid free. F-R-E-E. No slave."**

Then movement and anger swept through Ingrid's frame like a fire had been lit underneath her bare feet as she hopped off the window. She span a little, arms wide, as if she was daring the gods themselves to try and strike her down. " **Cage? Cage! I no slave… Why cage?"**

And that was when the dilemma of the situation hit Ivar fully and squarely in the chest. He could be truthful, tell her the door had always been open, she could leave when she wanted to, especially now that her shoulder was nearly mended. In fact, Floki had been planning to visit on the morn to take Ingrid out, to finally meet Helga who was practically vibrating with excitement, now that she was healthy enough to journey to Floki and Helga's home to settle in and gain more strength, and Cinead had been squirrelled away to an outlying household on the edge of Kattegat. Floki didn't want any… Past connections getting in the way of Ingrid's integration back into her rightful society and her own people. Or… Or he could lie. Tell her she had to stay here. Away, out from the world and the people… The people who scorned and belittled him. That way she wouldn't see it, wouldn't know, she wouldn't need them… Ivar… Well, he would admit he didn't like sharing, never had and likely never would. And he wouldn't have to share if he took her to... No, he couldn't, could he? He had grown… Fond of her. She was twisted, scarred, angry and broken and… Just like him and yet, nothing like him at the same time. He couldn't solve her, couldn't figure her out and until he did…

No. Floki would no longer be stalled. Especially after two days ago, when Floki had witnessed one of Ingrid's bursts of anger for himself and saw her launch a table across the room before she had tried to set fire to said room with all of them still inside. He wanted Ingrid out and about and Ivar had already used the 'she's still healing' line one too many times. By the eery glint in Floki's eye, he was becoming astute to Ivars games and that just wouldn't do. Primarily because Ivar himself didn't have a fucking clue on what game he was playing and why or what he wanted so much. Still, his gut told him to carry on, to go along with the insane plan formulating in his mind, practically screamed for him to do so and he had never dismissed his instincts before. He smiled, chuckled and slid off the chair, grappling across the floor to the open window. Perhaps there was a way he could still play all this within his favour. " **I'll be in trouble for this… Me… Trouble… But Ingrid free… Free with Ivar… Understand?"**

Just as she had stalled, her fist had clenched and paused just by the wall, likely on its way to hit it, as if she could punch her way out of her 'cage'. She really was the wolf her eyes portrayed her to be. She couldn't be domesticated, locked in, stagnant. She would either claw through the walls or chew her own arm off to get out of the trap. " **Ingrid Free… With Ivar? Trouble?... Trouble for… Free me?"**

Ivar dragged himself up and onto the ledge, turning his back to the open window, moonlight shading his face in black but his eyes glowed just as brightly as if they were made from star dust. " **No… Ingrid free… Floki… Everyone think weak. Ill. Lock Ingrid in here, safety. Keep you in here… Ivar won't. Ivar take Ingrid out. Ivar _keep_ Ingrid out and free."**

It was one little lie... Or, he supposed, one big lie and deception that would lead to his early journey to Valhalla by Floki's hand, but what was the point in small details? When Ivar wanted something enough, he got it. End of. Finished. He didn't want Ingrid to leave, and if he had to go to the extremes his mind had conjured up to do so, then he would. It would take three days journey there, one day and night there then three days journey back. It would take them a while to figure out what he was up to and by then and the time they catch up, it'll be too late.

She didn't need to know he was the one that had been stopping others from visiting her. Predominantly his nosey fucking brothers who always ended up taking everything from him despite having everything he had ever wanted themselves. Not this time. No. Ubbe, Sigurd, Hvitserk and Bjorn wouldn't swoop in and steal the only real connection he felt to anything other than himself, Floki and his mother. Come morning, Floki would come and then take her back to his home with Helga to finish healing, and with his legs… Well, Ivar couldn't make that journey alone often and especially not every night like he had been doing by coming to her room. That means he wouldn't see her, wouldn't talk, teach, laugh or yell. She would be gone for a while, he knew, Floki and Helga wanted to spend uninterrupted time with her. He had grown accustomed to her, Ivar liked constants. He awoke at the same time everyday, ate at the same time, spoke to the same people, played chess for three hours each day and visited Ingrid in the dead of the night. It was routine now and he hated it when others disrupted that. Surely he wasn't hurting anyone by what he was planning to do? No. He wasn't. Floki would understand... Given time.

She didn't need to know he had been the one stalling her being allowed outside. If she thought he was the one getting into trouble by taking her out, that would create a debt. Some loyalty. She was a loyal little thing, Ingrid. He could tell by the way she hadn't given up on Cinead, not going a single day without asking for the dim blonde. If he could gain some of that loyalty, well, he could nurture it, grow it. Three days should be plenty of time to convince her to see things his way. For once, he would have someone in his corner. Her fist dropped as she edged towards the window, slipping into the shadow he created. " **Ivar trouble taking out Ingrid? Others lock Ingrid cage? Why Ivar out with Ingrid?"**

She wouldn't be able to see the glint of his own teeth as his grin grew and his head cocked to the side in a mockery of innocence. " **Ingrid Ivar friend… We are friends… Aren't we?"**

He lifted his legs as his torso began to spin, facing outside as he dropped his legs over the edge, ready for the fall he was seconds from taking. In one last harmless gesture, the moonlight now streaking across his face, Ivar turned to face her over his shoulder, smiling widely as he held his hand back for her to take. For a moment, she looked puzzled as she eyed his open palm, glanced behind herself at the door, eyed his palm once more as if he was holding a spider out towards her before looking outside and towards freedom. Nodding to herself, she hummed an affirmative growl, if such a thing could exist, confidently took his hand and slipped onto the window next to him, shoulder to shoulder. " **Ivar Ingrid friend. Ingrid Ivar friend."**

And with a mental chant of three, strangely in time with one another, they jumped. The moon was the only witness to their laughter.

* * *

 **ASLAUG P.O.V**

By the time Aslaug made it to the main hall ready to eat morning meal, something in the very pit of her gut was telling her something wasn't quite right. It only took for her to sit at the head of the table, glancing at her sons pilfering food onto their plates and heartily eating for her to pin point why. One seat and plate remained empty. Turning to Ubbe, her most rational son, she addressed the issue. "Where is Ivar?"

The knife that had skewered some chicken paused half way to his mouth, his gaze flickering to his mother before looking back to the empty place at the table, knife dropping back to his plate with a clang. "I thought he was with you… He's always up first and normally when he isn't in bed, he's already ate and playing chess with you."

A burning coal lodged itself home in her throat, searing her skin. Before she could ask more of Ubbe, Hvitserk spoke up with a mouth full of bread and cheese. "He left our room last night, around two, woke me up when the door creaked. I thought he was just getting some fresh air or taking a piss…"

Normally, she would admonish her son for such language, especially while eating, but right now she couldn't find it in her to care. Ivar rarely left their home, and he definitely didn't slink off in the middle of the night or leave without telling her where he was going or at least when he would be back and he never… Never missed morning meal. Her chair scrapped loudly against the wood as she pushed herself to stand. "And he wasn't there when you awoke?"

Hvitserk looked like he had been pierced by an arrow, eyes wide and confused as he swallowed down the large bite, shaking his head as Ubbe swore under his breath and came to a stand too. Ubbe knew Ivar as well as Aslaug did, them being the closest of the brothers. Ivar was unsociable, only practiced his weaponry and fighting skills with his brothers and hardly went hunting unless with them or… "Mother, do you think he's with Floki?"

As if the very name could summon him, Floki skidded out behind one of the doors leading to a hallway… The hallway to Ingrid's room. The coal dropped to her stomach, sinking her insides. No… Ivar wouldn't… Hvitserk or Ubbe perhaps, but not Ivar. A fur cloak was grasped in Floki's hand tightly, the very cloak he was going to give Ingrid for their morning journey to Floki's home where she would finish recuperating. The coal turned to ice. "Aslaug… She's missing… Ingrid's missing. She's not in her room and the window is wide open-"

Ubbe slowly turned to his mother, eyes hooded and dark. "Mother, Ivar's missing too…"

The situation dropped, silence fell before shattering like broken glass and chaos broke out.

* * *

 **WHAT IS IVAR'S BIG PLAN TO KEEP INGRID IN KATTEGAT? KEEP TUNED TO FIND OUT XD**

I'm incredibly sorry for the long time between updates, and how short this chapter is compared to previous ones, but I've been really busy with my first year of university and life in general. However, with shorter chapters like this, I can update way more often and will hopefully continue to do so. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and think of it as more of me sliding back into the groove of things XD.

As always, please review, they are fuel for the fingers to keep typing!


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